Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Batch #68 - 
Name: Jean Kirstein
Age: 12
Occupation: Tribute 
Status: Alive

The man dressed in twirling gray and yellow fabric stands on the stage, female tribute just next to him, she’s pretty, Jean’s seen her around school once or twice. She’s nice too. Somehow she doesn’t look scared. Her hands are shaking against her legs, sure. But she’s not allowing the Capital to see her break, she’s not allowing them to laugh at her predetermined death. She’s not giving them the thrill.

She’s older, probably 16, maybe 17. For some reason he can’t remember her name. Why can’t he remember her name? It’s not Sasha , the voice in his head repeats over and over again, thank god, if Sasha’s name was called—Jean doesn’t know what he or Connie would’ve done.

The man coughs into his hand before he begins to speak, it's probably just for the dramatic flair . Oh how his mother would scold him right now if she could hear his thoughts. But she can't. It doesn't matter.

Petra! That’s her name! He’ll make sure to tell his mom to bring her family some grain as a gift. Well, gift is probably the wrong word…

“And for our male tribute…” Connie crushes his hand, knuckles going white and cracking bone, he’s scared. Jean grasps his just as tight.

“Jean Kirstein.”

Somebody wails—screams in the crowd, Jean’s confused. Why is everyone looking at him, why is Connie letting go of his hand?

It's quiet for a moment, his breath loud as the wind, heartbeat echoing like a birds call.

The announcer coughs into the microphone again, the Peacekeepers surrounding them begin a stride towards—directly towards him…what is happening?

Then it clicks. They called his name. Jean is the male tribute for District 7…

Oh.

It's his first year, he's standing in one of the rows closest to the stage. It's not that far.

" Jean …" someone whispers as he walks, it's a girl's voice. Sasha. He knows her voice.

He looks in the direction the voice came from. It's a trio, Connie's holding her hands, someone's holding her shoulders so she stands upright. 

"Jean!" She cries, he stops walking. "Please—" 

A Peacekeeper pushes him forward and he obliges. Jean's mind goes quiet for a while. Everything's so still.

Jean can see his mom shaking on her hands and knees from the stage, he doesn't like it. He wants to walk down and give her a hug. Why can't he give his mom a hug? There's a crowd around her. Someone give her a hug, please . He wants someone to help his mom.

He should've asked Sasha.

" Shake hands ," Jean thinks he hears the announcer—whatever his name is—say. He doesn't move, not until Petra does. 

It's slow. So agonizingly slow.

Petra’s breath hitches as she grabs his hand. She knows that he’s going to die. Jean looks up towards her in a daze, a tear floats down her cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” she says.

All he wants to do is cry.

Jean's mom doesn't come to see him.

~

The Capital is ugly , was his first thought upon laying eyes on it for the first time. It's too clean and rich. Petra sat next to him chewing on something called clam, apparently it's a seafood . At least that's what their mentor said, it looked mushy and nasty. Jean didn't try it.

"It's an acquired taste," blah blah, "Very rare in 7!" He really doesn't care.

"You sure you don't want to try it?" Petra had asked for probably the third time. 

Jean shook his head, "You already made me try the Octo…opo…"

"Octopus?" 

"Yeah, I didn't like that." 

She smiled, cheeks pinched. "Okay." 

Their apartment—Petra's and his—is massive. Is it even called an apartment? Maybe he'll ask his mentor later. The kitchen alone is bigger than his bedroom back home and they said he could eat whatever he wanted, whenever! He almost smiled at his mentor upon hearing that, then the announcer dude (he really needs to give that man a name) had to open his mouth about calorie intake and how that's harmful or something and pissed him off. 

Jean doesn't like the announcer dude: Twirly. He's annoying, and doesn't deserve a proper name. Most of the Capital is but he's worse. His mentor is okay, nothing special about her, just, she's alive. She won her games two or three years back and hasn't really been around town since. He doesn't like that she pities him, but that's nothing to complain about. Not when Twirly is her competition.

The food is incredible, besides the stuff he doesn't like. If Jean didn't know any better he'd think he were royalty. He knows that the Capital is just trying to fatten him up like a pig for slaughter or however the saying goes, he doesn't mind. He really likes potatoes.

Petra and him make idle chat while they try to find their bedrooms, because apparently they need four bathrooms and a sunroom for two people and some guests. She agrees that potatoes are good, though she's surprised by his enthusiasm. 

"Mom doesn't make them a lot at home, they're expensive." 

She hums, "Have you ever had potato soup?"

Jean gapes, his feet still in the middle of the hall as he looks at her completely awestruck. "They make potato soup ?"

She laughs and waits for him to catch up again, patting his head and ruffling his hair before she speaks. "I'll ask if we can make it tomorrow, yeah?"

Jean's eyes feel as if they're about to pop out of his head as he nods.

"You're so cool."

His designer is short, Jean's almost as tall as the man and he's twelve! Hm, isn't that neat. He wonders how old the dude is; he didn't even tell Jean his name. 

For now he decides on the name Scowl, it suits his face. 

“I hate kids,” Scowl mumbles through the tape clamped between his teeth, though he doesn’t sound like he truly means it. It's okay, Jean doesn't really like kids either, they're all grimy and…ew. Connie's like that, Jean doesn't exactly know why he's the exception but that doesn't matter, maybe it's because of Sasha—no, if anything she's worse. 

Jean likes Scowl. After all, he’s different. He doesn't dress like the rest of them . His appearance is almost casual, and while his personality might, Scowl's appearance doesn't make Jean want to curl in on himself.  Maybe he’s nice once you get to know him better.

"How the hell am I supposed to," Scowl walks in front of Jean, his brows pull together as he pushes his index finger into his chest. "You have stage fright?" What's stage fright —Jean shakes his head. "Okay, so it's your fault if you fuck up this interview then."

Jean nods. He's not sure if that was the right choice though. 

Scowl's walking towards the other stylist standing against the wall, mumbling a few words towards them, though the only words he can make out are, "...he's…" and, "...mute…"

The other stylist walks out the room not too long after and Scowl tells him to lift his arms so he can get back to work.

Whatever happens during Jean’s private training—he doesn’t remember any of it. Only that someone had begun to laugh, so he’d gone and thrown the axe for a second time. His choices were between that or his plant knowledge, he knew better not to quiz himself under pressure.

What he didn’t expect to happen was the steel digging itself so far into the dummy's head that the plastic snapped. Everyone watching him stopped laughing. 

Hmph . Mom always said he was strong. 

Jean kept his smile to himself. He walked out the room with the tiniest pep in his step and nodded towards Petra, she gave him two big thumbs up. She was asking how he did.

Jean met the gesture halfway, one hand pointing to the side. He really wanted to smile.

She nodded and mouthed something along the lines of, “ That’s okay .” He’s not sure if that’s right, he was never good at reading lips.

Twirly and his mentor are waiting for both of them at the entrance of the building, unnecessarily large glass doors guarded by Peacekeepers as per Capital law. Everyone is a threat . Yeah, Jean will show the Capital what a 12 year old can do alright, he rolls his eyes.

Petra comes out a few moments later, if Jean didn’t know any better he’d think her shoulders were pulled back. Her face stays passive though, her kind eyes never faltering.

He does the same thing she had done with him after his performance , thumbs up, eyes questioning. She does the same motion he had done, thumb to the side. She shakes it back and forth before moving it to stand upright, he smiles with his teeth. She did good!

District 7: Lumber

Female Tribute: Petra Ral
Score: 8

Male Tribute: Jean Kirstein
Score: 9

Now that Jean's really looking at him…Twirly is really ugly. No amount of makeup, gold, or glitter could fix that. Did he paint himself white? And what are those things on his eyelashes? 

Here Jean was thinking he overdressed. Stupid Twirly, he hates him.

The lights in front of (or is it behind?) the stage are blinding him every time he looks away from Twirly and the spokesman is talking about him, he thinks the man's name is William or Willy, it's something like that. Jean forgot. Twirly pisses him off. Where's Scowl? Jean like's him a lot more than… Twirly . 

There's a lot of people in front of him right now.

Willy—that's the name he decided for the host—turns towards Jean and away from the crowd. Jean gulps. A few strands of the man's blonde and streaked pink hair have already fallen out of their updo, a literal updo. Jean thinks he used hair gel to stick it up like that. Willy looks weird with the style, he doesn't have the head shape for it.

"So, Jean. Everyone here has seen your score, 9 wow, that’s impressive! Can you tell us some of your skills?" Willy smiles. He’s doing something with his hands, something that almost—is he signing?

Jean's mind goes blank, somebody backstage is pointing and telling him to look towards the front camera, so he does. His eyes are wide as he tries to think of anything to say, something. Scowl said not to mess this up , Jean doesn't want to disappoint Scowl. So he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"I'm really good at skipping rocks."

"I don't like interviews."

"You did so good!" He doesn't feel like he did good . If anything, that first answer made everything else sound worse, even if he did follow it up with how good he was with an axe and climbing trees. It was too late. They were already placing bets against him. They were all laughing at him.

Petra reminds Jean of his mother. 

Twirly scoffs with his head in his over accessorized hand as he rounds the corner and makes eye contact with Jean, Scowl's just behind him and god, he really wants to hide now. He probably made them both look like fools, he definitely disappointed Scowl.

He turns back towards Petra, at least she's not laughing at him. And if she is, it's not in front of his face. He's still too scared to actually look up at her though. Would it be weird if he asked if she could hug him? 

When he finally manages the courage and looks up towards Petra again she's shocked, why is she shocked…did he say that out loud. Oh. 

Petra hugs him gently, arms wrapped around his shoulders as she crouches to meet his height. She repeats, "You did good." Then she's pulling his head onto her shoulder and in his ear whispering, "I'm proud of you." 

~

"Remember, don't run towards the center."

Jean nods. Everyone keeps telling him that. 

Honestly, he’s surprised Scowl is even here, Jean thought he’d never see him again after the interview. He doesn’t even look mad.

Did Scowl look at him with—was that empathy ? 

Jean shakes his head, it can't be.

"Hey, kid." 

Jean turns away from the weird tube, head cocking to the side in question. He really hasn't spoken much since coming here, has he… huh . Not to anyone besides Petra at least.

"If you think you're about to die," Jean doesn't like that word. "Close your eyes and count to a hundred."

"Huh?" 

Scowl’s brows raise, as if he wasn't expecting Jean to talk. Was he really that quiet?

Scowl hesitates, "...you can't see color as you die." 

Jean laughs, it feels good. Jean likes laughing. "You're lying."

Scowl shows the thinnest smile, his eyes look kind. 

"You're right. I'm lying."

Jean needed to ask Scowl. He has to. 

“You don’t hate me?”

“Huh?” Scowl questions, that same look of shock is back. “Why would I hate you?”

“You hate kids,” Jean starts, “And I messed up during my interview.”

Scowl sighs, his shoulders fall. He pulls his jacket off, it looks soft. Scowl sees him eyeing it, “You want it?” Jean’s jaw snaps shut…was he gaping? “I’ll give it to you if— once you win.”

Once .

Jean needs to stop these urges. He shouldn’t cry because someone he’s never going to see again is offering him a jacket. 

“Why?” Even his voice sounds like he’s about to burst into a fit of tears.

“You remind me of someone I used to know.”

~

So many bangs blow through his head, Jean feels as if his ears are about to explode. He didn’t run towards the center, he listened. 

He’d seen Petra try to run towards him, she looked angry, his blood drained. He didn’t want to die.

He ran faster. 

Jean’s legs hurt, he doesn’t stop. Hands pushing through thick forest branches and cutting through the fabric of his shirt and arms didn’t stop him. Some boy yelling 7 in a taunt over and over again didn’t stop him. Jean didn’t really notice when the voice stopped singing his number. He didn’t care.

Then there was a tree, one if the branches just low enough to where he could jump to grab it and pull himself up, its wood is thin, he can snap it off so nobody else can get up.

The branch snaps easily, at least that's how it feels. He’s never climbed so fast in his life. His hands are probably raw. His ears are still ringing. He’s going to cry.

Jean finds a place where he can sit with the leaves, his body feels heavy and light at the same time. He can’t move anymore. He doesn’t want to move.

Jean doesn’t like these games. They’re not fun.

He places the ball of his palms to his ears and pushes, hard . There’s too much noise, too many sounds. It’s all giving him a headache. He’s scared. So damn scared.

The familiar ringing of his eardrums echo through his head as Jean tries to keep his eyes closed, he tries to imagine he’s back home, eating dinner with his mom, maybe Connie and Sasha too. Yeah. 

His knees pull to his chest and he pushes harder, fingers digging into his temples.

“ 7 ,” someone sings, “ I see you .”

Jean keeps his eyes closed.

“ C’mon, let’s play a game .”

There’s a thump below as the tree shakes at its root.

Everything goes quiet.

Jean’s not too sure when he got out of that tree but it was a bad idea, footsteps stomp behind him fast and he thinks he hears yelling. 

The person who'd been taunting him—District 5's male tribute he thinks—was dead at the trees stump. Throwing knife lodged so deep into his spine Jean couldn't pull it out without stepping on the body, he wasn't going to step on someone for a knife. He didn't even want to touch the body.

The cannon must have rung when his ears were covered, when Jean forced his mind into a quiet whirr, because a gust of wind pushed past as soon as Jean began his retreat. They'd come to collect the body.

And like an idiot, he makes the mistake of looking back.

It's a girl, the District 11 girl is chasing him! 

He doesn't want to die. Please. 

He misses his mom.

Her shoulder knocks against a tree and she falls, for some reason Jean runs back. He tackles her against the bark with all his body weight, hands reaching frantically for anything within his reach.

His hand catches something. His fingertips prod at the object before he picks it up. It's a rock.

The girl's head bangs against wood as she wriggles beneath him. For some odd reason, he thinks that she's more scared than he is.

Her head shakes and her eyes are bulging, she is scared . Her?! Why is she scared of him? His right hand holds just above her collarbone and her eyes are locked on it as she shakes. 

His hand feels wet, his wrist is numb. What the hell? Ow, why does it hurt so bad? Jean looks down, her mouth is covered in blood, holy shit.

She bit him.

Jean brings the rock towards her head and shuts his eyes tight, he doesn't want to watch his vision darken as he dies. He doesn't want to die in a world without color. Just darkness. There's a crack, then the girl is quiet. Jean opens his eyes after he’s finished his count to one-hundred, he’s surprised when he realizes he's not dead. With the rock in hand he runs as far away as possible.

His fingers hurt.

A cannon fires.

Jean doesn't stop running.

"Jean!" 

Someone's yelling his name? That's not good. 

They know his name.

Jean doesn't bother to move. He's really tired. His hand hurts. It’s probably leaving a trail of blood.

Wait. Why does it sound familiar?

"Jean!" Hands grasp the back of his shoulders harshly and his entire body tenses. The hands force him around to face them. He knows that hair. The voice sighs, "Holy— oh my god, you're alive."

He forces a nod. 

Petra's brows pinch as she tries to read his face, "What are you thinking about?"

She's talking to him like a person. Not a toy. 

Petra's not going to kill him.

"I miss my mom."

Petra's eyes look tired, her hair is dirty. Is she okay? She's okay, she's alive . And suddenly Petra's hugging him, god is he confused. "You're okay…yeah, yeah I miss them too." She's breathing, he can feel her heartbeat pressed against his temple. It's real. Her hands wrap around his skull and for some reason he relaxes in the hold.

“You’re not gonna kill me?” Jean mumbles against her chest.

He feels Petra freeze for a moment, then she’s cradling him again. She’d be a good mother. “I’m not going to kill you,” she repeats. “I would never.”

She’s not going to kill him .

Thank god. He's thirsty. Maybe Petra has water?

Maybe he could ask her to help him clean his hand…

Jean trusts Petra.

Mutt’s are scary. Mutt’s are really, really scary. They were horrifying just watching the games, but in person. No. Jean doesn’t like them. Not one bit.

"Don't look at them."

Easier said than done , "...okay."

They growl like dogs, they look like people, like the other kids. Really disgusting versions of the faces he remembers from the training center. Was that everyone who died or do the game makers just use whatever face they want? Actually—he doesn't want to know. 

Jean's scared they'll somehow manage to climb into the narrow opening in the riverside cave, the one only he could fit through. The one Petra forced him to climb in while she had to press her body against a high ledge. 

They just wanted water…

He doesn't even want to cry this time. The noise is too much. He can't think of anything else besides their sounds. They're gnawing on each other. Chewing. Jean hates the sound of chewing. His hands are pinned just below his chest, he can't reach his ears. 

He's forced to listen to the chewing.

Everything is fuzzy. He doesn't feel real.

What just happened.

He tries to force his eyes on an object, tries to keep himself awake for as long as possible. There's an object in front of him, dark, orange, and brown, maybe a log? What log is orange? Maybe it's a fungus, he's seen millions of those before. It has to be.

No. That's not a fungus, that's not a log. It's shaped weird. Wait—is that…

That's a body. 

It can't be.

That's a…no…that's not. 

Petra. Where's Petra?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice echoes through the horizon, it almost sounds agitated . Jean's head is swimming, blood coating so much of his body he thinks he's drowning in it.

He can see thick, dark red seep into the orange. He reaches out for her, Petra's body is stiff. Maybe she's still alive? Hopefully. 

Her eyes look glossed over when the back of her head hits the grass, she's not focusing on anything, her muscles are limp. There's blood trickling down the side of her mouth…her cheeks are pale. He can't feel her breathing. Ow, what the hell just hit his stomach?

What the—

Petra.  

There's an axe stabbed sloppily in the center of her chest, that…that wouldn't have killed her though. It's too shallow. He saw the boy from 2 do the same thing to play with his prey. Oh my god , she didn't die upon impact. She felt it all.

She killed herself so he could…so he could win.

Jean feels sick. He wants to hug his mom, he wants to hug Petra again. 

He misses Connie, Sasha, home , he wants to go home. Does this mean he can go home now?

Jean stands alone, hands shaking and teeth clenched tightly as he tries not to cry. Don't give them the thrill. That's what Petra did.

“Your winner of the 68th annual Hunger Games.” 

Chapter Text

File #68 - 
Name: Jean Kirstein
Age: 19
Occupation: Victor
Status: Alive

Jean watches the sun set in the west. Blue, orange, yellow, pink, all fading into black. Small stars forcing themselves to be seen and dotting their way along the sky. The distant smell of salt will be forever foreign to his nose. It still feels weird, they've grown up doing this, every night before the reaping they sat on this hill on the edge of the forest. Maybe it'll never feel right , maybe it will continue to feel foreign for the rest of his life. 

Jean won't get reaped tomorrow because he's already been once before. He still has to stand on that stage though, that horrible stage that should be holding someone much older than him, someone with a kind smile and open heart. Not him.

But, his term has passed, and it's granted him a position much bigger than his previous. 

Connie snores, body curled like a baby and his head pressed against Sasha's knee, her own body spread as if she were sleeping in her bed at home. They'd long since outgrown the blanket his mother had knitted for him when he was six, but it was tradition. No matter how tall they had become in the years past. 

Sure, curfew is mandatory and results in punishment…but the Peacekeepers never travel this far out to scavenge for a couple of kids. 

Jean doesn't sleep, he never tires, not on these nights at least. Though, it's not that he tries either. Eventually he turns his body east, treetops blocking a decent portion of his view, and watches as the sun rises with the same colors it had set with. The white of the clouds reappear from the sad grey they disguise themselves as at night.

It would be such a beautiful day if he hadn't known any better, if the calendar hadn't written those words out in such bold lettering. Maybe he would have forgotten if there wasn't a constant reminder being blasted into their ears.

But, after all, everything is: Courtesy of the Capital .

Birds slowly begin to sing in the trees, one copying another until they're all repeating and harmonizing the same melody. A few mutts still live with them, Jabberjays that have long since mated with Mockingbirds, ones the Capital can't seem to catch. Maybe they've finally given up, accepted the species. Maybe they'll let them live.

Neither of the three are necessarily light sleepers, but Sasha’s always had sensitive hearing; loud noises give her headaches. Jean knows how she feels and frowns when the birds' songs wake her. He watches her as she stares up at the sky, back undoubtedly aching from a night on the packed dirt below them; all she does is blink. 

Eventually, while Connie is finally beginning to wake, she sighs.

"It's your favorite day of the year."

"Try to wait up. We'll meet you after the reaping," Sasha says as she turns in the direction of her own home. Jean thinks he can hear her father calling from across the garden, well past the village gate. 

"Sure." Jean agrees.

Capital homes aren't perfect, as much as they look and seem to be, they're not. The floorboards creak under his weight and Jean can hear his mothers shift from foot to foot. She's basically swaying. 

"My handsome boy," she smiles and pats down a few stray hairs along his neck. He can't make a snarky remark at her comment, not today. He would be a horrible son. She takes a step to view him from the side, "You look perfect." Jean won’t say that his eye bags from the constant lack of sleep are so prominent that he doesn't need to look in a mirror to see them, they're so sunken in he can feel them.

He's so tired, and it's completely his fault. He doesn't want to speak. He doesn't want to hear anything that's spoken for the rest of the day, he just wants to plug his ears and feel the ground rumble below him. That's enough.

Her brows crease, “What’s wrong?”

She knows what’s wrong . She knows. It’s so obvious, the answer to her question stands not even a foot in front of her. What’s wrong is the reason she’s looking up right now.

“Nothing.”

"Hey," she starts.

Her hand reaches for his, fingertips dragging along his own slowly. She used to tell him about how he'd coo at the feeling as a child, she used to do it after his games to calm him. It was such a familiar feeling. A feeling that never felt old.

Her hand holds his firmly before letting go again. Hands drag away from one another and she's whispering again, "Tell me, Jean." 

And so he does. Not verbally, but in their own understanding, her eyes somehow being able to draw out the words he wishes to speak, the words he can't convey even through his hands, something only a mother could do. They end up doing this every year, it might as well be a part of his annual tradition too. 

She's never been the best with directing some advice, but it's enough to help Jean begin to think straight. Even if said advice is more so targeted to aid the Capital and not him… 

"It's your job, Jean."

He knows she means well, her words just don't come out right sometimes. 

Jean nods. Why does he always assume this will take so much longer than it actually does? She just dismisses him anyway. His feet feel heavy as he turns towards their home's front door, bright blue encasing the sky above them, making 7 feel bright and happy, though it's much more dull and lifeless without the noise.

"Jean," she calls out again. He turns back without a second thought. "Your jacket."

Right .

She smiles, "I'll see you when you get back. I love you."

"Love you too," Jean nods in agreement before turning away again. He doesn't shut the door behind him, his mom standing inside the warmth of their home as he leaves. She doesn't wave. His mother has never waved goodbye to him.

The 75th Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell; something special. And yet the Capital hadn’t disclosed anything before the reaping…

The 50th they had double the tributes, the 25th…they voted on who the tributes should be, then before that was the war. What could they possibly have in store this time? Connie’s theory is that they're going to reap from the ‘ graduation ’ pool, the kids who now don’t have to worry about being pulled from that gore-inducing bowl because they have finally turned 19 and are now free to work for the rest of their lives. The ones who think they are safe as slaves.

Every year since Jean was twelve, one thought runs through his mind: Please, don't be Sasha . 

It's selfish, he knows that. But Jean cannot deal with trying to mentor her. He won't. Connie’s just barely missed the cutoff for this year and thankfully, it's Sasha's last reaping year, she doesn't have to worry anymore after this. And somehow, if Connie's theory happens to be right, she's done. Now. 

Connie won't be as safe if he is right, that doesn't make the situation any better. Jean just has to pray neither of their names get called come either scenario. 

District 7's escort finally steps on stage and Jean's mind goes numb, too many noises in his head and not enough feeling throughout the rest of his body. He tries to cross his ankles beneath the chair, he struggles. 

" Welcome everyone, one and all, to the 75th annual Hunger Games,"  

The speech starts, the video following not even a minute after. Everything is perfectly timed, just as the Capital intends it to be.

The cameras are pointed towards him, Jean can see it; the lenses shine and glare from the sun, directly in his line of vision. Then they're back on the screens. Soon they'll face the front of the stage again. 

Once the anthem finishes, someone stands in front of the microphone again. Jean thinks it's the mayor, probably speaking about his devotion to the Capital or something else worthy of the suck up title he somehow still holds.

" And now, the drawing ."

Sasha just has to evade one more slip drawing. Her name's only in there a handful of times, the odds can be in her favor.

Their escort dips her hand into the bowl and pulls out a thin sheet of paper, "And for our female tribute…" 

Not Sasha .

"Gabi Braun."

The kid walks onto the stage, her hands shaking at her side as she overlooks the crowd.

Jean has a moment of relief wash over him before reality sets back in. Then there's a twelve year old girl standing just a few feet in front of him, on this stage. Dread washes over him tenfold. 

"For the male, Udo Bock."

They shake hands.

Connie's theory was wrong. And somehow, District 7 is managing to continue with their youngest tribute luck.

"14 and 12…"

It's the first year Jean is officially older than all of the tributes. He'll never be mentoring someone older than him anymore.

A beat follows.

"You were 12," Connie says as if it's the most normal thing in the world, as if it would make the situation any better. His feet are propped against the wooden desk as his arms fold behind his head. Connie's leaning on the back two legs of his chair like an idiot.

Jean scoffs, "Yeah. I know." 

"Okay," Connie pauses, "Your pessimism this year has reached an all time high. Do you need a relaxer? You constipated? I can get you a laxative Jean, I know this shit"—Connie chuckles at the word—"gets you all stressed out."

"I don't want your drugs Connie."

"They aren't drugs per say. And even if they were…they're all over the counter if that makes you feel better—"

"Connie, out. You're not supposed to be in here." Their—Jean's and the tributes—escort, Nanaba, scolds in her intricately folded, cream dress; in the most uncomfortable looking shoes one could own—at least according to Sasha's word—and dirty bronze accents all around. Thankfully, Twirly had been ' promoted ' the year after Jean won his games, not that he'd seen confirmation of this. Jean hopes he quit—better yet, the Capital fired him.

Nanaba's a sweet lady, of course he wouldn't trust her with anything outside of the games. She's still Capital folk after all. But she does seem to enjoy working with their District, she's not trying to flaunt the fact that she wants to be promoted to the Careers in their faces, and she doesn't wish to rid herself of their presence simply because of her social class.

Connie's chair tips too far back at one moment, the next his arms begin to circle in front of him to somehow pull his body forwards. "You can't just say that without announcing your presence y'know? God, for such ugly— for such large shoes, they sure are quiet." 

Nanaba cocks a brow.

"Connie, you just tend to stomp everywhere." Sasha calls from behind, pin caught between her teeth as she messes with the stitching at the side of her bodice. 

" Sasha, you too ." Nanaba tries. The warning falls on deaf ears.

"Wow, okay, I can see that you guys don't want me here and so obviously hate me. I guess I'll just curl up in a tree and starve myself to death!"

"You're not doing that."

"Have fun," Jean replies.

"I'm leaving." Connie stands, grabbing a handful of peppermints—thankfully they're all wrapped, who knows where his hands have been—and shoves them in his pocket as he makes a start for the door. Sasha's barely a few steps behind.

Jean looks up, "I'll see you two before I leave?"

Connie doesn't hesitate. "Always…yeah, we'll be by the train, like usual." Nanaba holds the door open with her knee as they wish him luck with the tributes. "Gotta hurry, Sasha c'mon!! I don't wanna run into the trash!" The sun is beginning to set, shadows pulling with Connie and Sasha's silhouettes walking through them. The bright orange of his jacket's hood, the dandelion yellow of her dress, both gone within the minute.

The trash. Capital trash , that's what Connie meant. The Peacekeepers. Connie hates them, tries his hardest to avoid them. Wouldn't Jean technically count as that as well? He's as much Capital property—no, definitely more than they are. Jean knows that's not what…it's just ironic.

"Half an hour," Nanaba says as she leans to sit atop the lint covered couch, her hands brushing the imaginary dust at her sides to the floor as she crosses her legs. 

Thirty minutes? Why isn't the Capital generous this year, that's basically luxury. How fucked are these games going to be if the tributes are getting half a damn hour? What psychological torture are these kids about to be put through…

Why aren't they saying anything either?

“Got it,” Jean replies with barely a hint of emotion, thumbnail scraping along the inside skin of his middle finger, all to keep his hands busy. He’s got to find something to do before he goes insane in this room. It smells heavily of medicine and disinfectant—probably to tame the former. It's too much.

These kids, they're not different. They aren't guaranteed to survive the games. Nobody's survived since him. Jean can't hope they will because they're young, it's a lost cause. The female tribute's hard headed, very mouthy, she might give the Capital a run for their money if she keeps this act up. It's almost funny (he'd never seen a Peacekeeper sneer before today), regardless of if she's just trying to distract herself or not. The male tribute, he's very statistical, number driven. Jean had seen it in school before he graduated. It was always weird looking at a kid, five years younger than him, helping the mayor with budgeting. That couldn't be legal.

Jean’s pretty sure they know each other, maybe the kids are even friends. It would make sense, they’re around the same age, and though their District is relatively large, it’s not uncommon. Schools aid the majority of that factor. 

He should've asked Sasha, she's got siblings. She could've helped him. 

"You said bye to your ma?" Sasha asks, because of course she asks about that before worrying about herself. Jean won't tell her that she'd basically just told him to ' do his job ', Sasha didn't need to hear that.

His mother never sits through the full reaping, not since his at least. She goes to watch as the tributes are chosen—only because it's mandatory—and then she's gone before the families are able to reach their children again. People talk about her as if it's a rude gesture, she's just scared. Why is she being ridiculed because she doesn't want to remember the devastated faces of the children who are about to die as their last? 

Jean nods, "Of course."  

"Goodluck," Connie mumbles, trying to act as if he's not worried sick for him. He's too expressive, can't keep his eyes calm to save his life, it always made him such a terrible liar. "We'll see you when you get back."

He nods. Used to the situation as it is, he'll be back eventually. They take care of themselves well. At least well enough.

He follows the kids onto the train, neither making a fuss as their families watch in agony. 

Jean sits in the uncomfortable wooden chair, Courtesy of the Capital , written on a card set in front of each one at the table. They're always reminding him. He doesn't even get the luxury of reaching for a glass before someone is in his ear. Two someone's to be precise. 

The kids were quiet. Were . And now the girl's blabbing about wanting to win the games, it hasn't even been an hour. The boy just stares at Jean through his glasses from across the table, it's honestly creepy.

Somehow, besides the ringing in his ears of one's voice, they might still be one of the calmest groups he's had. Jean doesn't even think they cried. 

"I want to win these games." The girl's stern. Why is Jean allowing himself to be spoken to like this, no less by a twelve year old.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"C'mon! You can help me!!" Her act's slipping, she actually sounds like a kid. "Udo back me up here!" 

Where did Nanaba go? She's always been better at this than he has…is she already getting ready for the annoying Capital reporters? The ones that don't know how to take no for an answer, the ones that don't know that they're being ignored purposefully. Some of their voices sound worse than nails on a chalkboard. One last year said something about voice modifiers being the newest trend…hopefully it's since died out. 

The kid shakes his head, "I don't want to argue."

"Well then, I do! He needs to help us, he's supposed to be our mentor. I don't want to be like all of those other kids," she points at Jean, "I'm not going to die because you don't think I can win." 

She's too young. 

She knows nothing. They won't let her win. Not again.

The Capital won't waste their time on someone so young, they realized that the first time with him. It's too much money, too much publicity. They have to make him seem like a kid without being human. That doesn't work. 

Jean finally begins to fill his glass, uncaring of the seething child in front of him. He's thirsty and can't argue with a raspy voice. 

The girl starts again, she really doesn't give up, does she? "You're just like them—"

He is.

"Gabi." Udo tries to interrupt, she shakes her head and continues anyways. 

"No. We want to win this," the girl—Gabi, her name is Gabi —tells Jean. Her jaw is tight and Udo, hesitatingly, nods next to her. We . They can't both win this, they've got to know that. The kids don't seem stupid. 

Her voice is high with a sense of passion Jean had long since lost. These kids have a spark, a stupid and arrogant spark to them. They haven't given up. They haven't accepted their impending deaths…

Jean had begun to speak before she could continue, voice coming from somewhere he couldn't place. Heavy weight in his chest egging the sound on against his better judgement, "I never said I won't help you. I can't promise you win though."

Jean doesn't know why he's suddenly putting so much effort into Capital fodder. Apparently that's enough though. Both children nod. 

What the hell is he signing himself up for?

Chapter Text

“So, Head Gamemaker—wow, what a title that is!! This is the first Hunger Games where the reaping wasn’t directly affected, what exactly are you and your brilliant friends' minds planning for us? Why’re you hiding it from us?” 

“Oh, but surprise is so much a mystery,” a pause, “If I said what exactly that was, it would ruin the element of surprise now wouldn’t it, William…”

The Tybar tsks with a shake of his head, “You’re killing us all. The suspense!”

Oh, the irony.

"Though, maybe that's the goal?" He laughs, the urge, eyes wanting to roll at his inconsiderate nature. 

"One does not divulge their greatest secret in front of a hungry crowd." 

That smirk, it's sickening. Even on a head of neon green hair. "Right you are, Mr. Arlert. Right you are…"

~

Nanaba guides the kids through the crowd with nothing but ease, Jean at the back as she yells, "Follow, follow!!" Gabi is squinting from the camera's continuous flashing, mumbling obscenities she surely shouldn’t know at this age. Udo quickly figured out it was better to simply stare at his feet and wordlessly follow. 

The Capital was still white as ever, so filled with color, yet never colorful; buildings glowing under the sun like an object on top a flashlight, voices screeching in his ears like nails on a chalkboard, hands carelessly trying to reach for the four of them. 

District people are just an expendable object to Capital folk. 

"Keep walking," Jean presses between Gabi's shoulders—the crown of her head barely reaches his ribs. She'd stopped walking when someones long, sharp nails tried to grasp her shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

“Why?”

He pushes again, “It gives them leverage.” He leaves out the obvious answer: They’ll think you’re defying their rule, their power. They’ll shoot you.

"So you're saying we should walk through and let them grab at us like dogs in a cage— like puppies?!"

"Yes." 

Gabi, she's awfully smart for a twelve year-old girl. Udo too; Jean's got coherent tributes this year. It'll help when he has to explain how the interviews and personal scoring work, how the Gamemakers' heads throw numbers around until they've come to an agreement.

These kids aren’t hysterical with the looming thought of having to kill each other yet. 

"Hurry up, we don't have all day, Jean." What did he do? "They have be at inspection by noon. I have nowhere near enough time to get you kids through a mob, so don't stop walking."

It's so weird how Nanaba can speak like she's human and not one of them. 

"Wait," Udo starts, head finally lifting from the newly spread concrete, "Where are we going?" 

The chariots await, Jean wants to mutter. He doesn't. But it's funny to think about.

"First is inspection and grooming, then you meet your personal stylist, and their team— that usually consists of students, though. If they're still assigned to us, you'll be comfortable in the chariots." 

"They?" Both kids manage to ask over the crowd. 

Nanaba shakes her head, "Your personal stylists: Marcel Galliard, Porco Galliard, and Pieck Finger," she answers for Jean over her shoulder, "They're sweet people—"

"Mostly." Jean wonders what happened to Scowl. He'd never see him after his games, weren't the stylists assigned districts from the Capital? Maybe he got promoted. Who knows what this place does to their staff.

Jean knows what they do to the victors and that's enough on its own. 

"There's only two of us," Gabi says as she tries to hide the hand she'd counted on at her side. "But you said three names."

"Porco is Marcel's assistant, he works between both Pieck and Marcel though, if additional help is needed. They'll be with you as much as Jean and I," Nanaba points towards a pillared building, "Come follow, this way."  

“So…like second mentors?”

Maybe? He's never thought of it that way. Kind of? They'll answer the kids' questions, but is that really like being a mentor?

Nanaba smiles, “They make you look pretty.”

She couldn’t have said it any other way? Nanaba couldn’t have added something else (Capital standard pretty) to the end of that? Shit, somehow Jean keeps forgetting she’s from the Capital herself. She's back to being Capital again.

Udo hums, seemingly unaffected by the comment. If he is, the kid doesn't try and make it known.

Gabi goes back to her quiet mumbling.

When they finally make it to the building Nanaba had so graciously dragged them towards, both Gabi and Udo are pulled to separate, wrists being held as if they were about to bolt out the building. They're not the only ones though. Peacekeepers don't give a breaths worth of room as one looms over each of his tributes, elbows pushing the groups of children forward much harsher than Jean had. 

It doesn't take long before Jean's being (forcibly) directed in another direction. All across from the main show.

Three hours. He's barely been in the Capital three hours before someone utters that name. "Aww, Suicide Boy's back!!" they say popping the B, already sloshed out of their mind; Jean scuffs at the comment. Capital dogs never know when to shut their mouths.

They're both stuck in the same situation, why the hell are they always being…whatever this is.

District 4's never liked him, though they'd never even talked to him. It's all a part of the Career tribute mentality, after all. First it was the—at the time—15 year old boy that had won the games before him. And then another one of them won in the 70th games. Someone heard the name once and it spread throughout the Capital in the matter of days, maybe even hours.

Suicide Boy, One Kill Wonder…every damn name in the book, he's heard it, he's been called it. They're like a second skin. He'd almost responded to one once 2 or 3 years ago. He cried to his mother the moment he had gotten back home about it. 

She tried to tell him to just brush it off, but he can't, he can't just brush it off. Jean is—in some way or form—a part of those names. They're him.

"You seriously need a better nickname," the District 2 mentor mentions next to him. They stand together in the overcrowded space, waiting to be pushed towards their own inspection, their viewing row just after, being forced to wait and be guided to sit a few paces closer to the President's estate itself, in all its glory. 

Jean wants to roll his eyes. He somehow manages to hold back.

They continue, uncaring that he's obviously ignoring their idiotic comments. "What? Not happy to see me, Seven?"

Jean answers, weirdly enough. "Anything but."

That gives him a smirk. Something stupid that washes away within seconds. A reminder that they know what it's like. How it feels.

"You're happy today."

They haven't sold me this week. Wrote it off as a 'special event', isn't that exciting! There's a look between the two of them. It's knowing.

Jean hums as he shifts his gaze away, "Just joyous. What's got you so witty, Jaeger?"

Eren Jaeger, tribute and winner of the 71st Hunger Games. He entered that arena at 15 years old, (assumedly…) zero blood on his hands. And came out as if he'd taken a bath in it. All with a sadistic smile on his face.

"Sobriety!" He whispers, "Though I think you need it a lot less than I do. 4’s got you beat, can’t imagine how you’re managing, tough batch this year…" 

Careers and their backhanded pity. It's so forced. Two-faced. Jean sees the way Eren grits his teeth. 

Jean might just—will vomit if Eren tries to utter an I'm sorry or my condolences.

It's disgusting. Especially coming from him.

Eren changes the topic, quickly. Jean has always noticed that. When conversations get a bit too…serious…for the public to bud in; he's shifting it without looking back. "So. Are you shitfacing later? Drawing the edge?" That makes it sound like Jean enjoys all of this. As if he sees it as something to look forward to. "If so I have an idea—"

"Two," a Peacekeeper calls, quickly following it with a "Jaeger". Eren's quiet, he nods and walks out without a word, body disappearing into the distant crowd of betting Capital folk. His steps are stiff, not swaying like they usually do before the tributes display. 

He really is sober. Huh. 

A little less than half the day goes by. 

Jean twiddles with his thumbs, messes with the loose pieces of fabric along the hems of his suit, reties his shoes for the umpteenth time. Hell, he even tries to fix the wrinkle in his left sock.

Until finally, "Seven." One of the Peacekeepers calls. 

Jean mumbles, "Coming," under his breath; more for himself if anything. His shoes tap and echo against the tile, other mentors look up at him as if they were expecting someone different. 4 snickers incoherently behind their—somehow increased—drunkenness as if one of them had told a joke.

The Capital doesn't use names once you've won. No, they don't use names at all. 

Not unless you're special.

Thankfully he, Jean Kirstein, is not special to them.

After being poked and prodded at, almost entirely hosed and washed, all for him to be presentable towards a crowd that won't bother to take a glance his way—once they’re all done balking at his presence, that is—they allow him to his row. He's instantly surrounded by the rich smells, large wigs and puffy suits and dresses, the overdramatic footwear.

The loud clunk of their accessories, bangles, necklaces, earrings. It all sounds so performative.

Assigned rows simply mean however rich the Capital thinks you are; District 1 provided with comfortable spacing and champagne glasses—though those are provided regardless your District—and enough room to breath, 2 with just a bit less, 5 with the beginning of a crowd (Gamemakers and Capital staff)…7 starts holding the people rich enough to watch the chariots in person, and so on, down to 12. 

Finding an open chair behind wads of fabric isn't difficult without practice. Trying to avoid being stepped on though, that's all just luck.

Jean sits and waits for two weeks of hell to officially begin.

"Jean, how are you?" Pieck asks as she sits in front of him, Marcel to her side and Porco just behind. Her hair is woven together with pieces of silver metal shining through at certain angles, more surly hiding deep in her hair as well. Marcel's got the same silver, instead of beads and objects though, he's just opted for highlights. 

Porco's got a mixture of both, his silver slightly darker than the others, almost as if they're to look more worn. As if he's classified as lesser than them. He is. Capital fashion is such a mystery. 

Jean doesn't answer. 

Porco tries to kick at his shin, as if they are two children sitting at a lunch table in school, fighting over their equally questionable food.

He knows Jean won’t answer, he hasn’t for the last 5 years he’s known him. Porco is just simply being an ass.

"We flipped a coin. I got the girl this year, she's cute," Gabi didn't try to gouge Pieck's eyes out? What a compliment. "Though she does seem quite…skittish isn't the word…"

"Docile?" Marcel replies.

Pieck twists her head, corners of her lips pulling together from what Jean can see. "Gods no, not docile. I need an antonym."

"Unruly."

Rebellious, that's the word. Though they can't say that, now can they?

She shrugs, turning forwards once again, "I guess that's the best we'll get. Sweet thing regardless."

He's only spoken to Pieck a handful of times since he's known her, not because she doesn't try, she does, Pieck tries so hard to talk to him. Jean just can't. Jean can't will his mouth to speak words. He can't answer her questions, no matter how hypocritical they come. He can't ask her what she and Marcel have decided to dress the tributes in this year, because thankfully, they do their jobs correctly and don't just throw the same idea (or entire outfit) in rotation every year. 

District 7: Lumber. It can't be easy, he'll give them that. He understands why people hear his District's name and their first thought is the trees, the color of bark, the smell of wood. It's self explanatory.

The outfits aren't usually pretty though. Not everyone is meant to be a lumberjack, not even tiny, worth nothing, District slaves.

"They're in something customary this year," Marcel's the one to speak this time, turning his head to make eye contact because he can't talk without it and it's really creepy because he has really big eyes and— "There wasn't a lot of room for personalization color wise. It's not my best work, can't speak for her"—he gestures towards Pieck—"but nothing special this year." 

Nothing special…it's a goddamn Quarter Quell. What isn't special.

What does customary even mean? What does it mean in Capital terms??

Jean thinks he hears Pieck sigh, "Their youth makes them look cute."

Their youth? Oh Jean could, and might, actually vomit at that. The baby faces of children told they're about to fight for their lives looks…cute?

Jean barely misses his own scoff—it might be the most sound he’s ever produced in front of them. Pieck turns back, proving his point.

There are at least three sets of eyes on him now, all looking at him through the tilt of a champagne glass. The one that he threw back and clamped between his teeth as soon as the noise hit his ears. Jean should’ve kept quiet. It all should have stayed in his head.

Pieck’s brows are furrowed through her bangs.

Marcel, and his bug eyes…he’s got his head tilted in confusion, maybe a bit of admiration if Jean has learned how to read him right over the years.

Porco. Jean has no idea what Porco is doing. He doesn’t have that same look. It’s not District by any means; but it’s definitely not Capital.

Fuck.

Fuck!

What the hell has he done, what the hell is wrong with him!? He couldn’t last a few hours of just simply being quiet in a place he was forcefully welcomed to? 

What the fuck!!

A couple damn hours! That’s all he needed to do. He just needed to wait a couple hours!

Jean wants to gouge his eyes from their socket.

Porco (of course it’s Porco) opens his mouth to speak. Jean’s going to rip his vocal cords out. “You’ve got—“

And for the first time in his life, the Capital has managed to save Jean. It's the second time his conversations have been cut off by them, today at that; he might actually be thankful right now. The anthem starts and everyone brings their eyes forwards. Everyone is quiet.

The District 1 tributes ride out and Jean thinks he understands what Marcel meant by customary. Status. It's their damn worth towards the Capital.

The anthem continues blaring. The drums start, people are cheering. People who are so desensitized to slaughter are cheering…they're cheering for the dopamine. 

2 rides out, then 3—who has the first tribute he's seen so far that looks over the age of 17, a blonde girl who's not smiling for them. 4, 5, 6, it's just a bunch more kids. Their attire poorer with their number, accessories slowly disappearing, budget smaller with each person. 

Jean nods when his tributes go rushing past, draws of silver rushing past him and towards the President so fast he can barely catch it. The word customary keeps becoming more complicated, Jean thought he understood it before, but now?

Metal. Their colors are their metals? Why? Wasn't status enough on its own? 1 had bronze, the Career's all had bronze. 5, 6, and 7 have silver. Silver. Pieck's hair, all of their hair. The silver. 8 through 12 have gold as they ride past, and though it's the richest of the bunch, they still look anything but. It's so dull.

3 had a mix of both bronze and silver. Because, while they're not technically considered Career's, they're still upperclass.

Holy shit. Jean's wearing silver. Tiny bits sewn into the cuffs of his collar and sleeves. They're tiny, almost invisible. Weird. 

It’s all so confusing.

The tributes have ridden well past the crowd now, seconds closer to the President's mansion, the mansion that's surrounded in steel fencing to protect the oh so important marble statues of himself. They're ugly. He's (the President) somehow uglier than his own statues.

Jean doesn't get to miss the show though, televisions playing the footage of their—his tributes rides from every camera within a 70 foot radius of the last chariot. 

The President steps out from, his double door enclosed balcony. Shoes shining in the sun, white suit wrapped around his—nearing god knows how old—plump, short as can be, body. It's tailored, obviously. But it still doesn't look proper, almost as if it's too tight. 

Someone whistles behind him. 

Jean shouldn't care about that. He's not the President. Never will be; never wants to be. Not that at least…

A flower hits the back of his head. Heavily. 

President Reiss' forever faltering speech comes to a start. 

Jean cannot do this.

"—and may the odds be ever in your favor." That disgusting smile looks back at him.

The speech's done. Agonizingly slow claps begin to echo through speakers. The crowd around him bursts into cheers, hoots, hollars, everything.

It's just two weeks. Two weeks and then he can go home, he won't have to see that face for another year after these two weeks. He can go back—

He. 

Right…he's a mentor. 

He'll go back after these two weeks. That's guaranteed. Them? No. 

The odds are never in his favor. Never in their favor. 

"You two look great," Nanaba chimes while Pieck says something along the lines of, “You two are just too cute!!” Both clapping their polite Capital claps. When did Nanaba join their group? Where did she come from?

"My neck itches," Udo reaches to pull at the fabric, Porco shakes his head as he grabs his wrist and tugs it down. Udo attempts to ease the itch along his shoulder. 

"You two"—her eyes dart from one kid to the other, and back again—"have busy days ahead of you from now until the games, let's get you some rest." Nanaba says, "Training and survival begins tomorrow. Come, we'll get you guys a nice dinner and you'll go to sleep quickly."

Gabi huffs, crossing her arms in front of her as if to disagree. "I'm not tired though." 

"You will be."

"Can I change out of this once we get there?" Udo asks, quickly adding, "It's nice, but really itchy." He sounds like a kid. 

Nanaba looks mortified, thankfully Marcel chuckles at the question. 

"Yes. Yes, you can."

"Thank you."

Jean really doesn't want to do this. It hurts his head. He's not the right person to do this job, he can't kill kids.

Unlike the Capital…Jean has a heart. He sure as hell plans on keeping it too.

And still nobody has said a thing about what's to come in the games. What sicko was thrown in the design department this year? Or worse, had they been planning this for multiple years? Oh, he can't think about that. 

His head's beginning to swim. Soon his ears will start ringing. Temples will begin to throb. Everything is going to be too much too fast and he can't shut down now, he's got to speak to these kids and communicate. He can't not help them. 

Jean promised he would help them try. He can't back out. He just needs to manage two weeks, two weeks of strength. He needs to sleep, make as little useless conversation he can, all to aid these children. 

Yeah, he can do that. He'll lie to himself until it's over. He can. He…he can't—something taps at his elbow.

Gabi's looking up at him, her tiny face plastered in layers of makeup she shouldn't at all be wearing. Not this young. It's too much for anyone really. Her brows hold a crease, one he hasn't seen her without since the reaping, even if he hadn't looked prior to that; or really much at all until now. It just doesn't seem normal.

Neither of them speak, it's silent between the two. She's holding something in her free hand—her left still at his elbow for some reason. 

Jean tilts his head. Is she waiting for him to speak first? 

He won't. 

He can't.

"They were irritating my wrists…" Her voice is quiet. Almost too quiet to hear. He's basically straining his ears to peak at the sound. She's scared…

This was the same kid yelling at him to help her win these games on the train not even 30 something hours ago?

Her eyes drop to the circles of silver in her hand. "I don't want to mess them up, or lose them, or break them…I didn't want to ask her," Pieck he assumes, "Where should I put them…?"  

God, she's so young.

You were the same age… Connie’s voice rings from a distance. It’s weird how Jean has both his and Sasha’s voices memorized like that.

He shouldn't have been.

Against his better judgement, Jean holds out his hand. He whispers, because that's all he can do right now. "I'll take them."

"I— I can hold them." 

"It's okay. I'll give them back to her so you don't have to."

Gabi slowly reaches to drop the bracelets in his hand, her fingertips shaking ever so slightly. "...Thank you." 

Jean nods and shoves the metal into his pocket. He hopes the silver scuffs.

Chapter Text

Fuck the Capital.

Fuck the games.

Fuck everyone who thinks this is the cure to rebellion.

They’re all stupid.

It's too early in the afternoon and they—he and Nanaba—had been up until the sun began to rise. For no apparent reason besides the fact that Jean knew the people he'd grown up in District 7 with were most likely watching the same sun set and rise as him. All just from a different view.

Nanaba refuses to not be the last to bed. A weird rule she's made since he's known her. 

It was probably a way to enforce a bedtime on him when he was younger now that he thinks about it. But the habit never dropped.

People are going to fight back. And not because the Capital is trying to force them into smaller cages. The districts are already trapped, and they want to make it worse…

Oh how he’d wish to not be their messenger.

A gamemakers hands rest against the table—he’s not head as they’ve already revealed, but definitely important nonetheless—as he speaks to the fourteen victors around him. “Do I make myself clear?”

Jean listens, legs wrapped in pants that are very much just sweatpants, but fancier. He looks like he'd tried, and then quickly gave up, getting ready for this meeting. His button up isn't even tucked in and feet mindlessly kick the ground under the chair to occupy his mind. 

6 is stiff next to him, probably annoyed with the echo of sound. He doesn't care. He'll go insane if not.

The District 1 tributes smirk, clearly trying to make their cooperation known. 11, 8, and 5 follow seconds after. Eventually everyone's agreed to quite literally the stupidest list of terms Jean has ever had to listen to:

“ Tributes are not to be aided privately. Physically, nor mentally, during their training period. 

“ You shall not seek out sponsors during the games duration. Each donation is made out of selflessness. (Bullshit.)

“ No district is given advantage over the other (also bullshit) and it will stay the way. You all have your…talents…make use of them. ”

They want these kids to put on a show. A nice, enthusiastic and entertaining, show.

And then, by far, Jean’s favorite of the list. It’s said with a smirk and mocking tone, as if he’s trying to scare the literal group of murders sitting around the table:

“ Do not dishonor the Capital. ”

Eren raises his too tall glass in compliance and Jean’s praying that a mockingjay—any mutt that’s easily accessible really—comes and rips out his vocal cords as he nods. 

Compliance is mandatory. Anything else will surely get you killed.

“So,” 9, a girl who is barely 17, a girl with a scar the size of Jean’s hand snaking down her cheek, speaks up. She’s out of term and so obviously timid. “What’s the arena?”

4 bursts out into uncontrollable fits of laughter. The older man's neck is craned so far back that the crown of his head shakes against the back of his chair.

11 is lowering their chin to rest against their chest as their thumbnail digs into sensitive skin along the palm of their hand.

Eren’s watching through his glass and the girl from 6—Mina, if he remembers correctly—has her eyes blown wide.

It’s her first year as a mentor. District 9’s first tribute in years. She won last year's games just barely, the kid from 3 trying to crack her skull with a rock they’d picked up while crawling away from her and sobbing for their mother. They couldn’t see through the tears. 

She pierced their heart with a piece of branch. Then she cried, but of course the Capital cut it off before most of the districts could see.

Did seriously nobody brief her? Well…Jean didn’t. Still, someone should have. 

“Now, why would anyone of us tell you that?”

The girl hesitates. Then she coughs, “Right. Sorry…”

The gamemakers hands cross over his chest, he’s releasing a dramatic sigh then an eye roll through too long and over-gelled bangs. Bangs that he no doubt thinks look rich and superior. 

“Any warranted ”—the girl from 9 cowers—“questions?”  

Eren raises his glass, a smirk plastered on his face as he waits for approval.

“Jaeger.” Shoulders tense.

“This is the 75th game, correct?”

Jean thinks he hears someone groan.

“I don’t have all day for these nonsensical questions.”

“Well, wouldn’t that mean we’re—“ Eren coughs and corrects himself, “Sorry. You’re running a Quarter Quell here?”

The gamemaker pinches the bridge of his nose between index and thumb. “Yes.” 

Eren hums, leaning comfortably in his chair despite the looks everyone in the room glare towards him. “What’s so special about these games? What’re you hiding from us?” He takes another swig.

The room goes silent. It’s so quiet Jean thinks he might be able to hear the avox’s speak. Their tongues no longer ripped from their throats as a form of submission because they tried to rebel against them. Rebel meaning anything the Capital decides it does. They don’t speak, obviously. 

Eren quirks an eyebrow. Jean thinks the gamemaker flushes out of…embarrassment? 

Someone coughs into their palm. Probably just another staff member.

“Do not tempt me.”

“Just asking a question.”

The gamemaker ignores him. Going on about what they, as tributes, should be doing through this quick two week prep period. Jean’s heard the majority of it before, it’s just the same rules phrased differently.

Eventually staff manage to shut up, finally deciding that they’ve each talking their share. His leg has fallen asleep in the process, he can feel the prickling sensation all throughout his foot, the pressure coursing through his body as if he was trying to keep a growing building planted in the ground. 

Then, finally and quickly, both 10 and 12 are assigned their own set of mentors. And Peacekeepers are forcing each victor out the room quickly with the guns pressed between each person's shoulder blades. 

"In two weeks, 23 of you will be dead ." Gabi mocks as she takes another bite of her dinner. Tonight it’s split pea soup and grilled chicken. Jean has to say, it’s very mediocre for Capital taste.

Nanaba looks over the table like a kicked puppy. How dare Gabi mock their society, how dare she be mad about the consequences of their actions . How dare she make a joke over a war she wasn't even alive to witness. 

Jean hasn't done much besides working with Gabi and Udo—minus their mandatory Victors Meeting. He just sits around, tries to act like he's busy, watches a few staff interviews to try and at least piece together hints towards the arena at most. It doesn't work. The interviews piss him off; he hasn't been able to finish a single one, barely able to make it past their cocky and snark introductions before he mutes the sound and walks away to distract himself as it continues to play. 

The Capital is probably watching him through one of the hundreds—he assumes, Jean stopped counting (76) after his third set of games—of cameras hidden about. 

Jean keeps going back though. And they’re probably laughing at him, but, he told these kids he would help them. 

" ...but surprise is so much a mystery… " 

God, would they shut up? Nobody in the Districts enjoys this shit, no matter how much they lie. 

" Right you are Mr. Arlert… " Jean's going to push Mr. Arlert —Blondie, Head Gamemaker, whatever the hell Jean wants to call him—into a ditch and watch as his pretty, perfectly white suit, stains with mud. Maybe he'll get a kick out of that.

"Do not say that." Nanaba finally says, directing her words towards Gabi and pulling Jean out of the memory, though it's somehow more of a whisper. 

The table's quiet. 

Gabi looks up, "It's what they told us."

Udo's fork scrapes at the porcelain on his empty plate. He's enjoyed his last couple of meals here at least, that's good. "It wasn't very motivating." Then he asks for another portion.

Surprisingly, nobody objects to Udo's mumble. 

The air's stiff. The want to test boundaries has completely diminished. 

Seven people and a couple more, sitting around, and somehow the room is quiet…Jean won't be the first to speak, that's a given. 

"So," Pieck starts, she's trying to act as if nothing's happening. "Did you two make any friends?"

Thankfully, Nanaba had the sense to tell the kids to try and form alliances or at the very least make friends . Decent advice. Wrong crowd. 

Jean hadn't been able to speak the rest of the night, not that he'd tried to.

"The girl from 5 taught me how to tie a noose with her necklace." 

Oh god. 

Pieck falters for a moment, her words hesitant, "That's…interesting. Anybody— or anything, else?"

Jean can feel it now. These next two weeks are going to be long. 

Nobody answers Pieck’s question.

Dinner's over. Nobody's eating—except for Udo who's singlehandedly shoveling the Capital's entire food supply into his thin body and, hopefully, bulking out his stringy arms. Pieck, Marcel, and Porco all leave with the promise of being back early tomorrow morning and a silver handed wave. Seriously. Why are Pieck's hands painted silver?

The servants leave and night begins to peek through the sunset, obstructed by buildings with architecture that wouldn't have been possible before the war of course. Buildings that have somehow managed to loop around, even with the use of brick and concrete; buildings that defy everything his old school books used to say about physics and gravity. 

Nanaba's still sitting at the table, their group of four instead of seven and a few, staring at him through thick, false(?), lashes with specks of silver peaking at the corners, catching the light every time she blinks. It's almost a safety hazard; Jean's practically blinded every time it happens.

Are they supposed to be wearing silver every waking moment? Was that also a rule??

Jean swears he can see the color on the back of his eyelids by now. Everyone’s wearing at least half of the body weight in it.

He wants to shrink in on himself. It’s their second night in the Capital, he knows what’s about to begin. Something that can either make or break these kids' survival in the arena, all lying in the tone of their voice.

“Media?” He asks begrudgingly.

“Yes, interviews are coming quickly. And we haven’t seen their training footage…”

Jean can see Gabi's eyes snap between them.

“ Make up for what could have gone wrong .” Jean mumbles, the sentence practically engraved into his brain. What it really means is: Make them sound clueless, as childlike as possible. While most people don’t sponsor the younger tributes, the ones that do usually end up betting more in the act of a ‘ good deed ’.

Nanaba smiles, it’s soft. It’s always so different, one moment she's one of… them , and the next she’s her own person. She actually has thoughts and feelings, it scares Jean. 

He never knows what she’s thinking.

It’s unsettling.

“Perfect."

"What's media?" Gabi asks. Her confidence is back, at least that's what Jean thinks.

Nanaba claps and the Capital in her is back. All quicker than a snap.

"We're going to help you prepare for your interviews! The more people who like you two, the more sponsors. Don't worry, it sounds harder than it is."

Both tributes look towards Jean, not Nanaba. Jean. it's like they're asking him if this is true, it's freaky as hell. 

He shrugs, because honestly…Nanaba’s right. At least about the sponsors that is. Being interviewed live, in front of a crowd of at least three-hundred people, eleven of which are trying to come up with a plan to kill you at the end of these two weeks, isn’t exactly easy. 

But hey, what does he know? It’s not like Jean’s been through the games before!

“Interviews…?” Jean can’t tell if Udo is asking a question or not. “I forgot we had to do those.”

Gabi’s staring at the tablecloth. “Why do you guys use such fancy words?” It’s almost as if—“They make me feel stupid. Having to ask you questions that everyone else besides me already knows the answer to.”

They’re meant to make you feel little.

Someone sighs; it’s probably Nanaba. 

Nanaba leaves with a "Remember, smile and nod!" Out the door with the click of her heels echoing through the wood, and down towards the elevators. 

"Smile and nod?"

Jean hums, "Smile and nod."

"Do we need to sit a certain way too?" Gabi mocks, she's doing a lot of that today. "Or are we allowed to do that on our own?"

Udo pushes his glasses higher up his nose. 

Jean groans. "You already know the answer to that."

Gabi's hands dig into the couch cushions, clearly wrinkling the fabric. 

" That's stupid ." 

"Yeah, a little. But it gets you sponsors…"

"I can last without sponsors." No she can't. Neither of them will. Especially not when anyone knows what they're planning for the arena. 

“You want to have no sponsors?” Udo asks. 

Jean sighs, “My goal is so that's not the case."

Nanaba enters the room again. Maybe an hour or so later. Her heels are quiet, unlike when she had left. Arms full with shoes. Both small, child appropriate (thank god—even if it's the Capital version of child appropriate) heels for Gabi and a couple pairs of loafers for Udo. " So they can practice !" Nanaba's always enthusiastic about teaching the tributes interview etiquette. She even has a few skirts for Gabi to get used to—" Pieck always likes to give them length ."

Gabi still complains. The excuse being that her mothers shoes ” always made my feet hurt ” and she doesn’t want to deal with that.

Jean, honestly…agrees. 

"I don't see why she can't just wear flats if she's not comfortable in the other shoes. All Pieck needs to do is cut off a few inches of fabric." He knows that’s not exactly how it works. And she’d have his head for it if Nanaba told that to her.

"We both know the answer to that, Jean."

"They look like they'll"—Gabi points accusingly towards the couple pairs of shoes now sitting on the floor, she’s standing on top of the couch in protest (at least that’s what it looks like), reiterating her argument for the third time—"hurt my feet."

Nanaba hums, shaking her head. "I'll talk to Pieck."

"Thank you." Gabi sighs. Her shoulders relax; her hands continue to rest against her hips.

She doesn’t sit though. There’s something akin to a smirk on her face. She has her chin raised as if it were to make her taller, and her eyes are pinched to make her look smug.

Udo’s basically asleep, with his head against the armrest and glasses pushed as high as his eyebrows. The kid's hair is somehow standing at the top of his head. Jean can see his breathing’s slowed since the debate started. All the portions finally got to him.

”You having fun up there?” Jean asks.

His head tilts in question towards Gabi.

She smiles, teeth and all. She’s trying to hold some sort of laugh back as she says “This is how you see the world? It’s kind of ugly…” 

“I never said it was pretty.”

”You,” Gabi’s pointing at him now, “Are such a buzzkill! I hope you know that.”

She’s still smiling though. 

Jean shakes his head. “Be careful. You could fall from there.” 

“I won’t fall—“ Either Gabi’s foot slips. Or her knee gives out. 

But one thing is certain.   

She falls.

She lands right on top of Udo, and Jean has never seen someone sink further into a couch than those two are. He turns around and walks towards Nanaba—who’s sitting at the counter and sipping at whatever she’s chosen to drink—trying to hold back the cough that’s most definitely a laugh, cackle even.

Udo’s groaning and Gabi isn’t apologizing for falling on him. Literally. Falling. On him. 

At this rate these kids will kill each other before the games even begin. 

Hell, before the week is up.

But they're funny. And they’re kids. And maybe, just maybe, it’s sweet. That they can act like this in front of him. 

Jean grabs a cup of his own and watches as Udo throws a throw pillow (wow, that’s comical) straight for Gabi’s head. Gabi recoils as it hits her, and then there’s a pillow three times the size of his previous in her hands and they’re going for each other's throats. 

Laughing and giggling and yelling about how they are going to “ shove your face into this carpet!! ”

How the carpet became a part of the rules, he doesn’t know. But, it’s good and fun. Reminds him of home, and god is the feeling refreshing; like a breath of fresh air. It’s something that hasn’t been polluted with the stench of death. 

Nanaba’s chuckling while practically biting at the rim of her mug. 

“What?” Jean asks.

Nanaba’s eyes crinkle, “Nothing.”

”You don’t laugh. It’s got to be something. Because“—Jean tries to pitch his voice as high as possible—“‘ Laughing gives me wrinkles! And I don’t deserve wrinkles!! ’”

She sets her mug down. “I don’t sound like that. Firstly.” Her brows furrow together and Jean’s trying really hard not to laugh. “And you haven’t acted like this since I first met you. It was cute. Reminded me of your chubby little cheeks.” 

“Ew.”

”You had such a cute little face.”

Jean turns his eyes back to the pair of kids, they’re wrestling now. Udo’s not winning. Gabi’s not really winning either. “You sound like my mom.”

”She agrees with me.” Her hand’s squeezing and pulling his cheek. 

He pulls away. “Stop that.” 

Nanaba’s laughing into her cup again. “You’ve still got them.”

~

“Okay,” Nanaba adjusts a piece on Udo’s suit as she speaks. “What’s the most important rule?”

”Never stop talking.” Both answer in unison. 

Both she and Jean nod. “Good. Now remember, if you don’t know how to answer a question. Do what Jean taught you two. Redirect it. Who do you think will be your biggest opponent in the games? ”

Udo answers, ” I’m not too sure. Though, I am quite good with numbers . Then I smile. Maybe a laugh, then say: would you like help with this year's taxes Mr. Tybar? ”

Nanaba claps, standing straight again. “Perfect.” She overlooks Gabi before deciding that she doesn’t need any adjustments, “Would you like a question to, Gabi?”

She opens her mouth. Then closes it and pauses. 

Gabi shakes her head. “I’m good.” 

Nanaba’s continuing to remind them of what to do on the walk through the hallway, making sure to use her couple hundred foot walk to her advantage. She doesn’t let these kids forget anything. 

Stage etiquette.

Smiling.

More questions— through protest and all.

Eye contact with the audience and cameras.

Every little thing. 

Nobody’s complaining, weirdly enough. Gabi somehow got her flats (bless Nanaba) and Udo gets to pick a movie tonight. They’re decently happy. As happy as any normal 12 and 13 year old can get, honestly.

Jean thinks they sometimes forget why they’re in the Capital. Hell, Jean almost forgets himself.

But those kids spend at least 10 hours a day being taught how to survive and murder one another. So maybe they just don’t want to bring it up. Remember. 

Two weeks and somehow there’s only one night's sleep separating the present and an impending gameday. 

Slaughter galore. 

They’re about to go up and speak in front of a couple hundred people physically, and a thousand extra through a screen. These kids, neither him nor Nanaba need them to mess up tonight. All they have to do is follow the loosely printed script they’ve been practicing for the last two weeks.

Jean lets out a breath, his shoulders sinking as Nanaba sends his tributes through the waiting room door. Now they just sit and wait for their turn. Maybe two or so hours from now, they will be sitting on stage with a crowded audience in front of them.

”How’d you do it?” 

“Do what?” Nanaba asks.

Jean watches as she walks a few feet in front of him. “The shoes.”

Nanaba stops. Not a stumble though, she just…stops. 

Jean can see her watching him over her shoulder. 

“You.”

”Me?” 

“Yes, Jean.” She nods, “You have a lot of authority. I don’t know how you don’t realize it.”

Jean doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need him to answer. 

Nanaba picks her feet up again. Silver shining in the light back down the hallway. It’s as bright as a hospital. It doesn’t smell like one, not an ounce of medicine in the air. Just the feeling.

”Come,” Jean follows. “Let’s watch the show begin.”

Chapter Text

Capital Staff -
Name: Armin Arlert
Age: 19
Occupation: Head Gamemaker 
Status: Alive

Armin sighs to himself as he walks towards the stage wings; William is still continuing his discussion about the games, his own bets, assumptions of the tributes, waiting for another gamemaker to walk up onto the stage and entertain.

Everything they’ll come to find in the next few days. 

His collar is tight as he reaches to pull it away from his neck, vision tunneled as he adjusts the fabric without a care of whether it looks presentable or not anymore. He’s just got to make it through the rest of the month, then he can go home.

Easier said than done . The games. He’s practically hosting them this year. He makes the cuts. Armin tells his staff what to do to the tributes this year. It’s not the mind numbing press of a button. It’s his words. He’s deciding.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he can’t stop.

His hand yanks at the knot in his tie. Someone’s pulling down the hem of his jacket, another person is adjusting where his pants meet dress shoes. There are what feels like 100 hands, all faceless, pressing at his clothed skin; making him look perfect. And only that.

” Someone get makeup over here. ” The woman snapping his chin back and forth between her fingers says—or at least that’s what Armin hears. He can never trust himself. Not in the Capital. 

“ We need costume… ’

“ Get shine. ”

“… need to sew his cuffs tighter. ”  

Hair. 

“ Turn up his microphone volume once he goes back up… ”

“ Get the crew to fix his lights. Now. ”

Another dosage. 

No.

His assistant snaps in front of him. Armin blinks. His shoulders stiffen and he finally remembers where he is, what he’s doing, his job. 

Lara gives Armin a look, “You’ve got 15.” She holds his wrist, keeping his fingers flat as his palm faces upwards. She’s anything but sweet. Blunt, uncaring…doing her job. Unlike him, apparently.

Someone has already taken his coat—he didn’t even feel it. And she’s unbuttoning his cuff, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up his arm just the same she always had, a million times before and most likely a million times more. She’s checking. 

Because they don’t trust him. Why would the Capital trust him? He’s District.

They would never trust him. 

Not without their own protective measures. They have to keep him in his place. And that’s exactly what they do.

”I don’t need it,” he tries. It’s futile, they’ll give it to him anyways. They wouldn’t take the risk.

”Yes you do.“

His breath shakes. His fingers probably would too, if they weren't being held down by heavy hands. 

Someone’s telling him to close his eyes so they can start on touch up’s, the blue surrounding his eyes must have been smudged. He can feel a comb pulling in his hair. Wet gel weighing down at his scalp. 

The point of a needle presses at his skin. 

It prickles.

“I don’t.”

They still do it. Armin can feel the cold rush through his blood. It’s moving, from the crease of his elbow, and traveling to his head. It doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t feel anything besides the cold really. But it’s there, and it’s fast, and he bites his tongue until the metallic taste envelopes his mouth, until a rag is pressed towards his lips and he’s forced to spit out the glob of blood.

Lara presses her hand flat against his chest, rubbing at his sternum as his body succumbs to the liquid spreading through his veins. It makes him feel like he’s watching from a distance. Like he’s floating, and watching himself do nothing .

It’s only going to get worse. They’re only going to make him do worse.

This is nothing. 

She nods as he feels his eyes begin to gloss over. 

They all know that he is in the palm of their hands, their full control. 

Her hand drops his arm and it swings back and forth between them. The pressure at his chest falls. And it’s gone. He floats between them. Every hand he doesn’t know the face of, no longer touches him. They’re all walking away. 

Someone passes by him, a quick stride and they’re gone again. A shadow gone as quickly as it appeared. 

And he’s being pushed towards the stage center again.

William stands and guides Armin to sit in the plush white chair resting just a bit off center stage once again. He's talking within the second. 

“Our audience needs to know! Something, Gamemaker. Anything.” 

The man is begging as he goes to sit in his own chair. Wow …

Armin smirks, “What will you give me in return?” His hands fold atop his legs. He wants to laugh. 

William pauses dramatically, leaning towards the audience as if he were asking them personally. They all yell their donations. ”What would you like?” The platinum—neon green, hair turns back to him.  

Armin laughs at that. He can’t hold it back this time.

”To have some fun,” he whispers.

It’s sinister. The feeling. It doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t feel like him. 

It’s like a fog. 

He nods. “What a simple request. Done!”

Armin snaps, a ring slipping off and is pinched between his forefinger and thumb. He holds it up towards the audience, rolling it, metal glinting in front of the light. It’s most likely casting a dark shadow behind him. The audience murmurs.

”Not everything you hear, is what you’ll see. If you can’t see at all…”

He drops the ring. 

Light explodes and color flashes brightly. It’s blinding.

Sparkling, specks of glitter, fall from where they erupted in the air. 

”Learn how to create light.”

The audience cheers as William concludes his show, saying his goodbyes and thank you’s as any decent host would. Armin’s done. He’s on the side of the stage once again and, thankfully, nobody’s pinching at every part of his body and yelling for fixes again. Today is over, no more interviews for the next two weeks, at least. 

Lara’s behind him—not even three steps later—hands cupped around each other in front of her, grazing the fabric of her dress every so often from what he can hear. Though she’s behind him, Lara practically guides Armin through the halls.

Left. Right. Down three and a half flights of stairs. Through God knows how many doors—a handful of which are guarded and locked, their only access being each of their keycards. Both hang at her hip.

"Come." 

Armin doesn't hesitate, his head still foggy and memories white. Somehow Lara has managed to get in front of him and he blinks rapidly as the thick smell of a million perfumes—and colognes alike—surrounds him. As if blinking will help him any. 

He steps through the door as low whistles and polite claps start. Armin tries not to cough. Seriously, the smell's gagging him. There's a few firm pats to his shoulder that he has to stiffen his body for (they're more than just firm, practically slamming), and then a push between his shoulder blades towards the center of the room.

Decorated with golds and neon dressed bodies roaming about, he stands in a haze. From the drug or not, he doesn't entirely know.

A flute of—what he assumes to be—champagne is presented in front of him. He takes it without a thought. 

"You played the ring quite well, Arlert." A woman says as Armin takes a sip, did he really ? It didn't feel like it.

Not that he could do much about it…

He nods. Quickly swallowing the liquid so he can provide an answer, "We have to keep them entertained, isn't that right?"

She nods. 

"Of course."

The falling sparks still shine when he blinks, almost as if they're permanent. Hopefully they aren't. They are beginning to hurt his eyes.

"I second that. It was unique, could've been a bit more expressive though." 

Armin hums as he waits for the lecture to continue, his thoughts quickly interrupt that though. "Are…" Armin hesitates, "Are you in heels?"

"Are you not?"

A voice deeper than Armin's own answers him. Zeke's a broad man, most likely towering around six-foot-four and he's wearing heels? He's asking if Armin isn't?? 

Hell, maybe Armin should be. He has to crane his neck to look Zeke in the eyes normally.  

What's it like being that tall?

"No…"

They'd hurt his feet after a while… maybe not . 

Zeke pushes his glass from the tip of his nose. 

"Oh." Oh? What does oh even mean?

Zeke walks away, with an audible click this time. Armin follows. Moving towards his seat as he tries to comprehend what's happening; it's not working very well. Lara pushes him as he almost stumbles into a crowd of gamemakers and a couple of their assistants. 

One covers their mouth with their fist as the person next to them whispers in their ear. The group's giggling. Or, at least those two are.

Gamemakers are just gossips with a decent—sometimes above average—pay grade. 

He shakes his head. Eyebrows furrowing and nails digging into his palm, trying to keep his mind coherent. 

Armin is their boss for the foreseeable future regardless.

And at least he doesn't have to present the speech.

Lara snaps at his hip, and not even a minute later, someone's coughing for their attention at the front of the room. Everyone quiets. Idle chatter dissipates, people move to their designated, personally assigned, groups. There's an unnecessary clink of silverware on an empty champagne glass. 

The President stands in front of them, unsmiling and eyes pinched as if he were assessing everyone in the room. He hands the glass off to one of the waiting sets of hands in front of him and smooths out his dress shirt. 

" Welcome, everyone. Welcome to the annual, 75th, Hunger Games. " 

~

Hushed chatter echoes from down the halls and towards Armin's ears. Mentors and escorts are giving their tributes a few last pointers for their upcoming interviews that they shouldn't be giving; some kids are tearing up, a couple even going as far as actually crying. Stage fright probably.

He needs to hurry, at this rate they'll expect him to be late—and while he's technically their boss, and nothing officially starts until he's present, everything has a set time. 

Armin is finally alone though. And it's nice. Lara isn't breathing down his neck and shaking her head with every breath he takes…she's not even near him right now, waiting at her brother's side in the stage wings. 

Maybe, just maybe. He's purposely taking his time getting to the galleries.

If there were a pebble in front of him, he'd kick it, watch it roll unevenly across the polished and waxed floors that scuff further with every new step. His eyes would crinkle as he forces himself to focus on the rock, and only that. His mind would clear. Nothing would surround him. Nothing would matter. 

Sadly, there is no pebble. Nothing to distract him from his job. 

The mumbles and murmurs and whispers get quieter as he walks by, because people know who he is. They know what he's doing. Tributes are pushed towards the door of the waiting room and guided to their chairs by Peacekeepers.

The crying of children is no longer audible. He can't pick up the sound.

Mentors walk away with their accessories clinking together.

It’s weird, knowing half the faces. Faces of past tributes, ones that have won the games themselves. Ones that have grown with him. One he knows better than others…

" Armin ," he doesn't stop. Eren shouldn't be speaking to him, he's not stupid, not enough to try at least. 

"Armin. I know you hear me."

Steps follow, not loud, not quiet either.

He knows better . Eren should .

“So you’re telling me to… what? ”

”Armin,” Eren says. He’s stiff, and not wasted. “Just trust me.”

They’re standing off to the side, bodies somehow darkened in the hallway like it’s a crappy—cheaply budgeted—Capital spy movie. Eren, literally, pulled him by the tie and choked him out. 

“You know I can’t do that. They could be listening. I’m not—ugh, Eren.”

“They’re not listening. I’m telling you Armin, you just need to trust me. We've got this under control. Mikasa will help you out—"

“You aren’t telling me anything—under control? And Mikasa!? I can’t think straight and you’re telling me to trust you with something that makes zero sense? Eren, tell me something!”

Eren’s palm slams against his mouth, “Shut up! You’re yelling.” He whispers.

Armin scrunches his nose.

“I’ll tell you when I can.”

“ Bullshit .” Armin murmurs against hot skin.

Eren shushes him again, his eyes slit and they bounce from one corner of the room to another. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

Armin nods. They’ll kill someone if either of them are caught.

Eren’s hand falls and Armin immediately steps to the side, “Yeah, you’re not.” 

“Please.”

“Answer my question, Eren.” The fog is but a memory, Armin’s mind is on high alert for once and everything feels like a set trap just waiting for the string to be pulled in the right direction. “What. Is. Happening?”

Eren’s eyes squeeze shut and he’s shaking his head frantically before hands pull at his scalp.

“Who’s doing this?”

“ Me. ” He says quickly. 

Armin takes a breath, and holds it. “You?” 

“We’re getting out.”

"The hell does that mean?"

Eren lets out a breathy laugh and turns opposite of him, walking down the maze of hall's exit and going to find his seat.

What? The hell?

Armin's skin turns cold again. The doctor's eyes crinkle behind both his mask and glasses as he tells Armin that he's good to go. 

He quickly finds his seat on the balcony. Armin folds his leg over the other and leans back. He doesn't have to do anything here but watch. 

Zeke is a few seats down, quietly speaking with a few of the games—both novice and lead—programmers. Most likely trying to work out a couple minor errors that honestly should have been fixed (if not completely avoided in the first place) by now. The games start tomorrow, midday, and they’re still working on minuscule problems. 

The show’s about to start, he can tell with how the crowd begins to rial, quiet with the buzz of anticipation. 

William walks out and onto the stage with a hop in his overly dramatic step, arms somehow raising the crowd’s volume. He’s covered in what looks to be a feather-like material, literal feather, and you can even see bits of his skin peeking through with the right movement.

“… It’s my favorite time of the year. A time we’ve all been waiting for!! ” 

Hoots and hollers overcome his voice. They begin to quiet once he sits.

Tybar introduces his show for—probably—the thousandth time. Polite claps echo. He mentions the Hunger Games, the tributes. The audience erupts again.

After what feels like a far too long time, for an introduction period, he states their mandatory speech. Rebellion: how it’s the root of everything… this and that… evil; for lack of better terms. 

Finally he begins introducing the District 1 female tribute, a tiny girl, barely 15, though she could easily pass for 13. She has a bit of a stutter and hesitates as she speaks her answers. She was trained with the rest of the career tributes. Everything is perfect, set in place for her.

The boy, he’s cocky. And most definitely in love with the girl. A volunteer who can’t answer a single question without relating it back to her…it’s bound to get either—if not both—of them killed. A good tactic for sponsors though, if they stay together and play the role.

District 2’s, otherwise known as Eren’s, tributes aren’t anything special. Sure they’re a bit young in age, but besides that, with calm and collected stage presence, they’re just kind of…there. They answer the questions without disruption, or pizazz. Then they walk off when their time’s up.

"They can't tell!" One of his coworkers yells a few seats down. 

William laughs and redirects his question. The girl from 3 bites her lip.

She takes her time answering questions, voice monotone and uncaring. The audience grew bored with her by the third question and…she doesn't care. 

The timer runs up right as William begins to ask about her attempt to survive in the arena without knowing what's to come.

She walks off without hesitation and doesn’t bother to look back.

The boy is a little more lively, thankfully. He boosts the mood. It surely will rack up a few kind sponsors.

4 is uneventful, a couple of career kids nobody volunteered for because they ‘ weren’t ready ’. Oh well. 

5 tries to outdo everyone. Spoiler Alert: they’re just being loud.

A camera pans over to the gamemakers. 

Armin takes a sip from the glass he’d picked up not too long ago. It tastes tangy, not a good tangy either—just nasty. He tries not to scrunch his nose and make a face.

The first tributes who are technically over 16—minus a few, of course—don’t come until District 6 is announced. The girl, who’s probably 17 or 18, Armin’s forgotten, he’d have to look her file over later tonight, isn't keen on the whole crybaby act (her words) and answers each question honestly. “My mother has always told me to never lie, no matter the advantage.” 

She apparently volunteered. 

Her brother’s the male tribute.

He’s 16. Skinny as ever, and shies away from the camera like it’ll kill him. It might; those lights are bright enough to make someone want to gouge their eyes out.

“We know our way around maps. I told ‘Tavia’ll be there, wherever.” 

Like being able to read a map will help them. They’re a couple years too late for that.

Armin hums.

The older tribute streak is quickly broken when 7 steps out. So is the somber feeling though. 

She’s… something .

She doesn’t act like a 12 year old.

“Are you asking how I’m planning on killing someone?”

“ Strike two ,” someone calls again. Though it’s more of a murmur to themself this time. William can’t hear it from here, that’s for sure.

“No. Of course not. Just, how would you?”

She pulls her feet up and onto the chair, folding her legs as if she weren’t mid interview. “That’s what I just said, Mr…”

“You can call me Willy, sweetheart.” William forces a smile.

The tribute grimaces.

“No thank you.”

“Okay…then.” He coughs into his hand—Armin does the same. “Let’s try something else. That works, yeah?”

She agrees. 

Her time runs up quickly after that. The boy walks up and he’s much more…approachable isn’t the word, but it’s the closest Armin will get without thinking into it too much.

The boy speaks and Armin can swear he heard Zeke chuckle from afar. He’s chuckling over a comment that a 13 year old had made criticizing his job. Someone’s getting fired.

The rest of the interviews are uneventful. Boring, even.

~

Assistants run around him from every direction, the air feels different as it does every game morning, and nobody dares to bump his shoulder today. 

The sun was barely peeking through structures when he’d entered the building; pillars casting weak shadows; sticky skin from moist morning air. The anticipating buzz of bloodshed. 

They’d—the doctors, nurses, whatever they were—upped his intake. Slowly increasing it throughout a three day period, it was hell, the first day. Armin’s body still reels, it’s like his shoulders can’t be anything but stiff, yet his entirety feels sluggish. Thinking is…taxing. His mind refuses to wander but never focuses. His eyes burn as if he hadn’t slept for weeks, heat enveloping them every time he blinks, no matter how slow. His nose had bled. So much. 

Bodies continue to jet. In and out. More heat.

Final orders are let out. Everyone’s frantic. 

Armin just, stands at the center. His hands folded atop his back as he leans into the screen, he doesn’t need to be that close, too close. He could see perfectly fine from where his eyes originally sat.

“Three minutes,” he says.

Lara exits the room with forced goodbyes. 

Someone hollers for another to his left, the mutts, they’ll have to stagger their release. “ Sir, it’ll be too much for the arena to handle. We’d have to allow one of the closer stations to release them .”

“No.”

“Sir?” They ask Armin.

He lets out a breath through his nose, shoulders falling, but the tension doesn’t ease. “Scatter them,” he grits, “If that’s what needs to be done.”

They nod.

“Of course.”

Two minutes.

“The first set is already out, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the fog? Speakers?” He turns back to watch the screen. 

“Don’t worry, boss. We’re all set.”

“ Tributes rising. ”

“ Displaying the timer. ”

“ Sound’s, check. ”

One minute.

“And the cannon?” Armin turns.

Zeke nods, leans back, and takes a drag of whatever is in his steaming mug. “Ready.”

The children stand in silence for a moment. The timer's up; the cannon's boomed above them. And yet they stand still. In the quiet they're still, no blood, no bodies. Just heavy breathing, shaking hands, and fast beating hearts.

When the girl from 11 takes a step off of her platform, they all watch. The artificial howl of wind surrounds each and every one of them.  

“Get them off the platforms,” people will get bored if all they do is stand there.

They force the tributes off and onto the ground.

The bloodbath is a bit… delayed . It happens. But it's slow and, technically, one of the tributes doesn't start it. But they looked enough like one, so it doesn't matter, the camera's just see that kid from 12 attack 2 and somehow win. 

8 die. 16 tributes disappear into the fog. The fight for survival begins.

Nothing memorable happens until the seventh day, a full week; or, technically, the sixth night. 

“ What are those two doing?” Armin asks, he's genuinely curious. What is that kid doing ? He’d been called in on the concern that one of the tributes was getting too close to the area's edge. 

It’s so much more than that though. He’s—

“We’re not sure, sir.”

Not sure? They better figure it out. 

“That's not an answer. Find out.”

A few moments later, Armin is notified that they have been dealt with and the echo of a scream rings through the room. A few gamemakers look surprised, he doesn't note any of it. It drags for a short while, someone's watching the tribute carefully now, waiting for the signal to take her out as well. Armin doesn't give it.

She runs away from the scene. 

Someone sends a message to collect the body.

"Good." Armin nods. He clasps his hands behind him, shoulders rolling as he circles back towards the—vacant—President's suit. "Lure them towards the center."

“11 became collateral in the damage. Do you still want us to move them? We won’t be able to retrieve the body before then. We're barely able to pick this one up without being seen.”

One person has already seen a body, so what if they see the shadow?

“Do as I said.”

A chorus of yes sir 's fill the room as he begins his exit.

He's got to entertain his soon arriving company. One show is never enough.

He waits, and when the door opens—those aren't the right footsteps? 

They don't pause with an approving hum. They continue, and they're light. Not heavy. Not…them. 

"Eren’s ready. Armin," Mikasa calls and he knows exactly what's about to happen—that's a lie. He has no clue. His keycard is tucked in the palm of her hand when his eyes finally decide to register her familiar stature (he's not going to ask how she's managed to get her hands on it) and she's watching as people move down the halls out of the corner of her eyes. "It's time."

Don't ask questions .

Even if he’s not in his right mind. Armin trusts Mikasa. He trusts Eren. With this, whatever it may be—through the haze of everything. And his life.

They can’t change that.

Everything feels heavy. His head swims. Light drags in the corner of his eyes.

He nods, "I'm coming."

Chapter Text

File #68 - 
Name: Jean Kirstein
Age: 19
Occupation: Mentor
Status: Alive

Gabi was definitely not ready for this. 

She practically hopped onto the stage, steps rolling against the balls of her feet through her flats and the most forced passive expression Jean's ever seen. His mother could never be passive, over anything, he thought no one could outdo that look. Apparently, he thought wrong. 

I'm just observing, she'd say, leaned against whatever door frame she was near and her ears perked. And with time he learned to just accept her words. Shake his head, choose to watch with her or walk away. Jean usually chose the latter.

He didn't start sitting with her until recently. 

It took a while for him to realize that this, being a victor—a mentor, was going to be what he is for the rest of his life. It's weird. Even if he has already spent half of his life as one. 

Gabi answers her questions as if she's being timed—which she technically is—with curt and almost blunt-like answers. She doesn't slip any of her usual fervorous personality into her replies. 

She hasn't been asked anything important. Not yet at least.

William hasn't even asked how old she is, though it's not hard to guess. She was tiny just walking to her post and even smaller sitting, all the while dressed in greens as if she were mother nature reborn.

"Do you have a plan for the games?" 

"Huh?" She questions. 

"A tactic," the host laughs, "How you plan on winning."

He does this every year, and as much as Jean hates it…the gamemakers hate it even more. He gets warnings yelled at him and he still does it. God. Can't he just ask these kids what their favorite flowers are as opposed to—

“Are you asking how I’m planning on killing someone?”

“No. Of course not. Just, how would you?”

William "whispers" that last bit, straight into his microphone.

Gabi pulls her legs up and under her in the chair. She's definitely not supposed to be doing that, but no one says anything. Though Nanaba, once again, right next to him and for the second time, looks like a kicked puppy. She looks as if she's about to throw her head into her hands unceremoniously with a low groan. It would easily be the most uncapitalistic thing she's ever done. In front of him at least.

“That’s what I just said, Mr…”

He smiles, Jean swears he can see a vein bulge at the man's temple, “You can call me Willy, sweetheart.”

Then, quickly, Jean takes a glance in Nanaba's direction again, because he—William Tybar, a goddamn Capital snob—just called Gabi sweetheart. He's never called one of his… that. He can't be any younger than 60 by now, even if all of those surgeries cover his wrinkles, and he's calling his tribute, his kid, sweetheart…

And Jean can't do anything. He can only sit here and act like it didn't happen. 

He prays that the glue holding those slightly opaque feathers together decides to melt.

Gabi makes a face.

"No thank you." 

Jean blinks. 

William coughs into his hand and Gabi takes the second she has, finds him in the crowd, and makes eye contact with him. He presses his lips together as she stares, it somehow feels like a million seconds, even if there are only a few there in the actual moment; Jean slowly nods. She blinks as well, mimicking him and giving the tiniest smile, turns her eyes back and agrees to the change of subject. 

He doesn't even know what he just said to her. 

But she understood it. Perfectly. 

William hums, oh so obviously preparing another question with a spec of drama, "Are you and your District partner…friends?"

Udo?  

Even Nanaba looks confused. 

But then Gabi's eyes brighten, giving away the weak facade and Jean realizes exactly what's happening. "Yeah! We went to school together."

"Oh, how sweet. Were you in the same class as well?"

"Mhm!" 

He's painting a target. Bigger than the current one they have, and in bright red. It's no longer black and white. He's giving the other tributes an opening, allowing them to realize that these two children aren't likely to leave each other in the arena, let alone kill one another. They aren't like those other groups before, they're both young, really young, and have no idea how much it hurts killing someone. 

None of them do in actuality—but it's so different.

And with that, Gabi's time runs up. She walks off, just the same as she stepped on and Udo sits in her place. Jean lets out a breath, it's heavy and his gut twists, he can feel it, like it's on the verge of snapping inside of him. He's dazed. Barely registering the beginning of Udo's interview because of the realization that the Capital is trying to fuck him over. 

Udo doesn't deserve this. While the kid might be smart, he won't pick up on that. Nobody but Jean will. 

Unlike Gabi, William asks Udo how old he is. 

"I'm 13." 

The crowd whistles. And cheers. And applauds.

Everything, every question, it's answer; they all feel so much slower now. 

It’s an echo.

“Do you have any thoughts on the arena, we know it’s going to be special, this year’s a Quarter Quell!”

“Maybe they forgot.”

And it’s selfish. So incredibly selfish of him. Jean’s spiraling while his tribute is on stage, pleading and begging with people to help him survive in these game even if it’s just a little. It’s not fair. Not at all.

William…hesitates. He actually hesitates, mouth slightly agape as if he weren’t expecting the response. “Can you elaborate for us?”

“The Quell has always affected our reapings,” Udo sighs like he’s bored with the conversation, “Why would they change it now? If anything, it’d make more since during the 100th. Not now.”

“Hmm…” The hint of unscripted shock still sits in the man's throat, deep and unmoving. “I’d never thought of it like that.”

Udo shrugs.

It’s dead air for a moment. William’s eyes blink slowly, searching his head for another question because Udo never continued and dead air is really, such a bad look for him—

“We’re all human. Regardless of our home we make errors, constantly, and have our own secrets.”

When did Udo, the 13 year old kid Jean had known for a little over two weeks, become so philosophical? 

“So, they could be saying it’s a special arena. When in reality it’s something they would do normally, but have to play it as if they wouldn’t. Mind games Mr. Tybar.” We’re all in one giant illusion.

Somehow, if Udo is right about that it means that—

“Smart you are,” William laughs. His shoulders rolled back and the tendons in his neck stiff—for some reason. “You’re smart. Oh if I could bet young Bock! My money would be on you.”

Jean cringes.

Udo lets out a polite nod—which Nanaba lets out a sigh to—and walks off as soon as he’s told.

The rest of the interviews drag. Literally. Not in the sense of: my tributes are done, who cares about the rest! no. They’re all tense. Jean’s still on edge and William stutters into the microphone (he’s never done that before). 

12’s interviews grow disgustingly quiet, again. While they’ve always had the short end of the stick, this is just—it’s worthy of teeth grating and nail picking. 

Trying to leave though, it’s impossible. People wait and loiter around with their wide, protruding, suits and dress skirts, blocking walkways; accidentally elbowing him in the cheek, twice. 

Somehow, by some miracle, Jean’s able to find Nanaba in the perfume drowning crowd. She grabs him by the wrist—something his mother always does—and pulls him behind her as she easily makes her way through. Sometimes, when he was younger, he thought she had superpowers or magic that aided her.

He’s learned since then that she can just…do it. Command a roomfull, no matter the person and their title compared to hers, the amount of people, it doesn’t matter. 

They step into the hallways and Jean finally feels as if he can breathe through his nose again. She lets go of his wrist, bangles falling to her thumb and heels clicking against the hospital white floors. 

“We’re alive,” she sighs. “They’re alive.” Nanaba says it as if there were supposed to be another outcome. One that could so easily exist.

Jean nods. It’s slight—barely noticeable, even to him.

He takes another breath; deep and narrow. As if he were afraid his lungs would collapse on themselves.

“How do you feel?”

Tired. So incredibly tired.

“Fine.”

“We’re almost done.”

“Then I’m back home until next year.”

She hesitates, just slightly, her words don’t come as quickly as they usually do. They’re quiet, different. “Yes, you are.” 

Jean spots the kids the same time she does; the same time they spot him. Pieck, Porco, and Marcel all walk in a moment later. 

Pieck’s hands are clasped together in front of her, eyes squinting as she approaches with cheers. "You two did so well!" 

"I'm gonna puke," Udo says.

Jean sighs.

Porco coughs into his fist from beside him, though it sounds a bit more like a chuckle if anything.

"Let's wait until we get back." Nanaba counters.

"I'll try."

She shakes her head, "That's good enough."

Jean walks up to Udo, Nanaba already toying with his collar, mumbling to herself, and nods with his hand pressed into the boy's hair. He sweeps his hand back and forth—just like Sasha does with Connie.

Gabi takes his free hand between her still growing fingers and smiles at the both of them, with wide and happy eyes, so pure, and unknowing. Jean tilts his head to the side as she switches her hand for Udo’s in his, both easily weaving between his fingers. “Come,” she says, grabbing Udo’s other hand and pulling them both behind her.

They—the three of them, victor and tributes—keep behind Nanaba, hands linked in a line like little ducklings trailing their mother, Gabi, Udo, and Jean behind one another, and walk back to the apartment for their last movie night together.  

Jean sits, almost curled, in his spot on the couch, now eight years claimed with not even an ounce of wear to prove the fact. Something loud and vibrating plays in front of him as the kids give it their undivided attention. Pieck sits on the floor, one of her knees pulled close to her, dozing in and out every once in a while, back against the arm of a chair Porco sits in. The same Porco who claims to not be watching the movie, yet makes faces when a scene flashes and lights the room. Nanaba and Marcel are most likely in the kitchen. 

Gabi's arms are strangling a pillow with her cheek pressed into it, feet dangling off the armrest.

Udo has woven and cocooned his body between two blankets. 

It all feels… domestic . Sweet and calm. Almost like home.

Almost.

He’ll wake up tomorrow, groggy and eyes unfocused, and it will all come rushing back again. The games will begin, the last event in this annual, torturous, trip. Then, he’ll go home.

And for the rest of the year, until the next reaping, Jean will act as if this were all a nightmare. Not reality.

He’s going to act as if he’d never met these kids, ones that will be no more than corpses sitting in the back of his train. Corpses ready to be laid in the ground to rest until their names are forgotten. 

~

Day 1 -
Alive: 24

“Breathe,” Jean says, “I need you to breathe kid.”

“I’m… trying…”

Jean inhales loudly through his nose, waits for a moment, blinking twice, knee hurting as it presses into the ground because of his crouch, and exhales. Just as loud.

“Breathe, Udo.”

Jean pushes his glasses up for him as Udo follows the next breath. Deep; in and out; slow and steady.

Udo’s lip quivers for a moment. He looks so, so young.

“I don’t want to die.”

You won’t, Jean so desperately wants to say, to speak and make real. But he can’t, because he can’t guarantee that’s the case; Jean can’t guarantee the life in front of him that he should be able to.

He wants to hold Udo—and Gabi—so close to his chest so that he can feel, and estimate when his heart beats. He wants to whisper “I promise, you won't," and “I wouldn’t let you die,” into the kids hair and sooth him the way his mother had so many times. 

But he can’t.

And lying feels so wrong.

Jean still decides to pull him close, whispering in his hair, steadying the shake of this poor boy’s hands by forcing them flat along his rips and stomach. “I know.”

“Do you know if it’ll hurt? If—if I do…die.”

“I don’t,” I’m sorry.

Udo whispers, “I hope it won’t.”

“Hey,” Jean pulls back, grabbing Udo by his shoulders as his brows knit together, “Don’t say it like that. You don’t know if you’re going to die in that arena or not, so don’t act like you will.”

“But—“

“No. You are going to act like you’re going to win this. Understand?”

Udo nods, teeth chattering as he tries to clench his jaw shut. The artificial voice warns them that Udo needs to be standing inside the tube within the next 30 seconds. 

30 seconds…

Jean lifts his hands and gestures towards the tube. 

Udo takes another breath. “Okay.”

“There you go. Here,” Jean pats the kids biceps, just where the sleeves in his t-shirt stop, “one more thing.”

“You and Gabi will both have one.” Jean pulls the jacket from his side— his jacket. The one Scowl had given him. Jean doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly decided to give it up, the handful of tributes before these kids, the ones he’d mentored—Jean had never thought to give them such an… important token, a sentimental parting gift.

Thinking back on it, the gesture makes him look vile. Like he didn’t care for those kids. All now dead. Like they were simply pawns.

“Oh.”

They weren’t. He just needs to remember that. Remind himself.

“Someone gave it to me before my games.”

“…thank you.”

“You can do this,” Udo steps into the tube. Jean doesn’t continue until he begins to rise on the platform, “We believe in you.”

The last thing Jean sees before exiting the room is Udo’s hands gripping the hem of his jacket, zipped to the top of its well worn collar.

Nanaba stands in front of him, "She loved the jacket."

"Good." 

He says the word more for him than he does for her. 

Her hand squeezes his shoulder as she smiles. She doesn't say anything more. Nanaba simply turns around and begins walking.

And of course, Jean follows.

Just like he always has.

The minute's up, the horn sounds just before the boom of the cannon, but no one moves. It's too dark for anyone in the arena to see, fog engulfing whatever light has managed to escape the sheets of black even the cameras, expensive as ever for the highest quality display, themselves can barely see through. Why the hell is the arena dark? 

Families and couples—people all around Jean cheer. Both children and adults smile as they sit to watch for however long they like. 

Every single one of those kids in the arena though, they're all quiet, and someone needs to move before the Capital gets agitated and forces them to. He can hear one of them—one of the younger looking tributes—breathing, one of the cameras practically being shoved down their throat, though they don't realize it.

11—the girl—takes the first step. Her foot is slow to touch the grass below it, the grass that looks sticky and wet and dead all the same. Whistles coo as the camera follows her motion from a distance, slowly zooming before it cuts to each of the others.

It’s quiet before the whistling turns to a growl of the wind and it’s as if, all of a sudden, the hesitation vanishes. The games have begun. 

The cornucopia is small, shaded in fog and tree limbs, leaves casting dense shadows from above with only the hints of metal barely catching in the camera’s lens. 

1 sprints for the center the second he finds his footing. A few follow behind him and 11 hesitates, standing halfway from her pedestal and the cornucopia. He turns back towards her, fingers wrapped around the handle of an axe and she shivers, taking a step back before—

A scream. 

Produced by neither of the two, 11 nor 1.

The crowd around Jean murmurs with excitement as the screen displays two shadows in the distance, unbothered children cheer and roar from the entertainment as one collapses, becoming a lump that the fog makes to look a part of the ground. 

The District 12 boy appears in front of the boy from 2's body with his hair a bit disheveled and dirt scattered across his face with heavy lidded eyes. The wind grows a bit louder, drowning out the arena's chaos. Betters around him both clap and groan.

Both 11 and 1 run behind him and the cameras ditch 12 again. She's running and tripping over roots as the boy taunts his prey. He even pauses to grab a handful of stones at one point, tossing them in front of her. She trips again, hands pressing against a trunk as she tries to take another step around the tree as the stone rolls under her shoe. She falls.

Jean turns his eyes to one of the smaller displays around them and immediately regrets that decision. While he doesn't see the District 11 tribute die, he does see his own. Gabi, who is very much still breathing and alive, with a flushed face and wide eyes, still stands in front of her platform, hands clumping the fabric of her pants between her palm and fingers with her body completely still. His stomach plummets. 

"I want to go home." He thinks that's what she's mumbling. It's too hard to tell. It's much too hard to understand anything when his mind keeps repeating the same word over and over again. Run.

Run, run, run. Run. 

Run!

Udo comes out of nowhere, appearing in the corner and running towards her, mud already streaking down the side of his neck, and doesn't hesitate to grab her wrist, pulling her behind him and running into the blend of trees and fog. 

Eight cannons sound that night. A tribute each from 2, 11, 10, 8; District 5 and District 12 eliminated entirely. But Jean doesn't pay mind to that, he watches his kids take turns trying to sleep at the top of a tree while his fingers flick at the silver bracelets below his cufflink and against the arch of his palm.

Day 3 -
Alive: 16

No one dies the second day.

Jean spends most of the two days trying to convince potential donors to support his tributes; telling them to donate even so little in money as a flask of water. Nobody is paying enough attention to his words and so he has to distract them from the oncoming chase-down between the girl from 4 and a boy, for some reason, he cannot recall the district for.

Speaking in crowds is hell. 

Getting people to actually listen though, it's impossible.

It takes two meals and a couple hours before he's able to find someone that was stupid enough to actually bet on his tributes, and another hour-and-a-half before he's able to convince the man that they wouldn't disappoint. Jean knows the only reason he said yes was because of the two children grinning at his hip though. Neither could be over the age of 9 and thankfully, Capital parents refuse to disappoint their children. 

By dinner Jean has enough to purchase at least one burn salve and a stew for Udo and Gabi. They'd have to share it, but at least it's an option now.

The kids began to climb back towards that same tree once the anthem started for the night, somehow they had managed to acquire a backpack and Gabi tore it off her shoulders the second Udo was comfortable with how he was sitting. She tucks her knees into the front of her jacket—fully zipped to her chin—and leans against the trunk, hair tangled and messy in the front of her face and all. 

Nobody dies on the third day. Or night. They just exist in that fog consumed arena.

Day 4 -
Alive: 16

Eren’s second tribute dies that night. Alone and tears still rolling down her face from lightless, empty eyes. She’s laid in the dark, cold mist surrounding her, body curled into itself like a fetus and blood seeping from somewhere around her hip before the clip cuts.

“Didn’t even last a week,” Eren mumbles, palm of his hand pressed into his cheek, a couple loose pieces of hair stuck between the two layers of skin.

His voice. It’s…monotone. Dull and uncaring—

Jean swallows. That’s not his problem.

“Rough batch.” When Jean says that, Eren lets out a noise and shakes his head.

“Mhm.”

Four cannons go off that day, their absence greatly missed by the people around them for some reason. The anthem begins once Eren's tribute has most likely been acquired. The boy from District 9; the girl from 1—she was alone and without her partner for the first time since the start of the games—the boy from 10; and the girl from 2—Eren's.

Day 6 -
Alive: 12

The boy from 3 died that morning, well before the sun had snuck above the fake horizon and most viewers and tributes were asleep. 

The girl is still alive. She's been on her own the entire time.

The left lens of Udo's glasses had somehow managed to break the night before. The frame is dented in the corner just slightly and pushing a loose shard to scratch at the tip of his cheekbone, the skin becoming red and irritated. Where the red isn't scratched into him, lays dirt.

So much for Tybar's target painting though—it was shitty. And nobody has bothered to look for them. They've even managed to make friends with the boy from 11, even it all three of them are hesitant around each other, it's natural in this situation. The most Udo and Gabi had left each other alone is a few hours. It's smart, sticking together. They're still alive after all.

Both of them.

Day 7 -
Alive: 11

"Who's there?" The boy from 1 snaps. Dusk is starting to dwindle through the trees, he looks tattered and hungry. The kids cheeks have been hollowing a bit too quickly over the week while his fingers never stop fidgeting. 

Jean couldn't hear it at first, the twigs snapping from a distance, the harsh rustle of bushes and leaves, the thud of footsteps. 

"I'll kill you," he yells. 

The poor thing sounds more scared then anything. His voice is hoarse, likely from the lack of water he's been able to consume. 

"Please don't!" A girl's voice comes, cut off by the sound of nothing more than a no. There's two of them —three counting 1. "There's something—behind us."

He hesitates. Jean…does the same.

"What are you?"

"I'm…I'm District 8," she cries.

"6," the boy says nothing more. Their bodies finally emerge from the fog but 1 doesn't move. The girl is being held up by 6 and her right leg is covered in something. It's covered in blood as she bites her scrunches her eyes after each step. 

She lets out a sound when the front of her bad foot makes contact with a root.

"Please," the boy tries, again.

1 doesn't drop his axe, which is practically an attachment of his arm by now. "You'll kill me." 

"I won't," she grits. "Not if you kill him."

All three of them are quiet for a moment. Her leg is still leaking and it'll surely kill her within the next few hours. 1 blinks. 6 slowly turns his head towards the girl next to him, the one he's holding up and begging for help for. He takes a step back, letting go of her arm and letting her body slump on top of another root.

"What?"  

She shrieks as her weight folds on top of her leg. Her scream overlaps with another and the camera cuts to show the girl from 3, running towards something and the sound getting so much louder than the other one was.

He doesn't think she realizes that she's heading towards the noise. 

Two cannons boom. Back to back. 

The girl collides with the screaming child's back and they roll together for a moment. She stops face first into the dirt and quickly pushes her chest up, resting her weight on her knees and taking deep, body swaying, breaths. 

The other is breathing just as heavy, except they're cutting each breath off. Noise after noise begins again and 3's hand reaches for something, anything it looks like—a branch, a rock. 

She cries again—the other girl. With only eleven of them being alive at the start of today, and six being female. District 8 with 1, and 3 with either 4, 6, or 9 right now, or—Gabi. 

No, because Gabi is with Udo. And the boy from 11. 

4 is definitely with their district partner.

But there were two canons. 

The girl from 3 manages to find a stone and throws herself on top of the hyperventilating one. She presses her free hand against the girls mouth as the other stays above her head. Gabi's eyes are wide as she blinks between whatever shadow was distracting her and the rock being threatened above her. 

"Shut up!" 

Gabi stares from under 3. Then she turns to look back towards the shadow. The other follows her line of sight. 

The rock falls from her hands and bounces along the dirt. 

The anthem starts again and lights their figures, shadows retreating with the fog as their aid as the girls force themselves to look up. Gabi's cry is muffled by her hand. One—no, two lumps lay on the ground.

The boy from 6 appears first, then—

Udo appears on the screen, his portrait monochrome and dull, eyes looking tired, glasses perched on the highest point of his nose and the exact opposite of what someone his age should look like—what he looked like just days ago.

Clips and snippets of his time in the arena play around Jean on the other screens, the three days and two nights playing, all void of audio thanks to the anthem. Some footage is grainy, others you can barely make out that it’s even him there, his face never showing and head whipping in every which direction. 

Everything seemingly goes quiet. Still.

Wrong.

Blood rushes to pound in Jean’s ears before sealing all sound out. He can hear his heartbeat, his inhales—all deep and staggering, like his lungs can’t fathom the realization anymore than his mind. His fingers go numb at his sides. Wrists feel as if they’re being rubbed raw from rope tied too tight. Knees crack. His toes feel heavy underneath the layer of sock and protected by his too expensive shoes. 

This isn't the first time one of his tributes has…they’ve—and it won’t be the last either. 

It’s all real again, though. 

The thought of them somehow winning…it's gone.

Both the girls from 8 and 9 appear too. Then the boy from 11.

"Let's get you some water."  

A hand presses between his shoulder blades. And who knows, maybe water—a drink, something strong enough to kill him—would be good right now. Maybe he'll be able to swallow and let the lump in his throat fall again.

What could go wrong getting a drink? 

Yeah. He needs it. It'll be good. 

It's just a drink, nothing worse could happen in those few minutes. Right?

Wrong. 

Jean didn't even get his glass of water. Porco came out of the depths of hell, hiding in the shadows as if he were waiting for this moment. Which he probably was. With the way he went straight for Jean and completely ignored Marcel, the same Marcel who didn't even so much as flinch—the Marcel who Jean had just figured out to be the person to lead him here, cupping his hand over his mouth harshly, grumbling "shut up" over and over again. 

He must be going crazy. This is just…what? Psychosis? 

Exactly. 

Psychosis. And if it really is—which it one-hundred percent needs to be—that means the kid isn't dead. That means the games aren't going on now. It's all just a really bad mind fuck. 

"Don't. Scream," Marcel says, as if Jean was planning on doing that in the first place!

He blinks.

Marcel. Marcel said that. 

Okay…what the hell. What is going on? 

Suddenly the back of Jean's head is throbbing, thoughts swimming as he continues to blink. And blink. One more time, just for good measure. His brows furrow as he reaches to pull—yank—Porco's hand off of his face, finally allowing him to breathe again, because apparently Porco also thought strangling him was the right option and covering not only his mouth, but nose as well, was the way to go.

"You've got to trust us Jean."

"Trust you…?" Jean counters (Porco mumbles a generous "what the fuck" under his breath in response). Marcel hesitates for a moment, hands raising as if he's trying to surrender. 

"What are you guys doing?"

Nobody says it, but there's an oh shit feeling that wraps around each of them. It swallows the room whole; envelops them equally and without regard.

"Pieck," Porco starts. 

She cuts him off, voice stern and yet so confused. "I saw you two leave and then I heard a noise. What are you doing?"

"Pieck”—Marcel speaks this time—“lower your voice. They'll hear us."

"What?" She stares at Jean—as if he knows anymore of what’s going on than her.

"Quiet down and stay calm." 

"You're freaking me out." She takes a step back, head shaking and voice wavering. "Just…answer the question."

Who’s ‘they’? Is probably what her eyes are asking. But Jean’s just as—if not more—confused as she is. They’re both in the dark. He’s just allowing whatever’s going to happen… happen.

She’s escalating the situation.

"I can't do that."

Porco lets out something akin to a groan. "Marcel, this isn't going to work."

The other sighs. 

It’s been days since the games started. The original holler has died out with most people preferring to watch in their homes as opposed to venues. The four of them are practically alone, minus the stationed Peacekeepers every other turn.

Udo just died!

The Peacekeepers that can most definitely hear Pieck.

Marcel walks over to Pieck, placing his hands just below her shoulders and whispering something to her. She blinks, rapidly. She tries to push away from him as his arms begin to wrap around her, past her shoulder blades, caging her with himself.

"Why…" she staggers, "why aren't you answering my question?"

"It'll make sense later."

"Just— tell me." Her head slumps and Marcel reaches to cradle it against his shoulder as a vile falls from somewhere by her ribs and to the ground as it shatters at his feet. 

"You too," Porco groans as a flush of cold floats through Jean's neck. 

The last thing he hears is the rustle of clothing, scuffing boots, and hurried footsteps. Shouts echo somewhere behind him, or is it in front of him? He can't discern anything. 

A bang resounds, followed by a shout, and a scream, it's loud and bloodcurdling. Muffled.

Peacekeepers.  

Jean falls through the made up chaos as warmth takes over the cold. The feeling of a blanket holding itself together, around him, lulling the fall and ache to nothing more than a float in a void of nothingness. He allows himself to stay, his body to lull in the open space. 

“I’ve got him.”

For the first time since he was 12, Jean feels like he can control the noise, the constant hum and its breaths that follow closely behind. Its existence. Its entire being.

And so he does, control it. He makes it the one thing that scares him the most—that he yearns for the most…

He makes it quiet.