Chapter Text
Travis wakes before the sun fully rises, stretching his arms above his head. He sighs in relief when his upper back makes a small popping noise, relieving the tension that’s found home in his shoulder blades. With a sigh, he realizes that Javi isn’t sleeping in their shared bed. Panic surges through his body, before he remembers what day it is. It’s the day of the Reaping; the day where the tributes of district twelve will be chosen. The first year that Javi will be eligible for the Hunger Games. Travis frowns at the reminder, but shakes the idea from his head. He’s only twelve years old, and Travis hadn’t allowed him to take out any tessarae. His name will only be added to the drawing bowl once. The likelihood of him being chosen is extremely slim.
He stands from the bed, throwing on what Javi calls his, “Stealth Clothes,” and prepares for a long day, between hunting and surviving the Reaping. Because he’s from District Twelve, a poor, hungry, and tired district, he won’t have the upper hand if his name is drawn. He won’t have practiced his whole life for this, such as the Careers from Districts One, Two, or Four. Sure, he’s good with a bow-and-arrow, but…
Travis grimaces. His name will be entered twenty-seven times today. His chances are much, much higher than Javi’s, and, while he’d much rather himself be drawn, he’s unsure of who would protect his family if he died. Ever since his father had been caught hunting and executed by a trigger-happy Peacekeeper, Travis had been the sole bread-winner of the family. It was a simple mistake, really. Travis’ stupid, stupid father had been attempting to teach him how to hunt.
“I can’t be the only man of the house,” he had said. “Make me proud, Travis.”
Travis tried. He tried, and he tried, and eventually, he got good at it. He hunted alongside his father, with hand-crafted weapons, risking both of their lives. If anyone caught them hunting, it wouldn’t be good. The Capitol mandates that anyone caught “stealing” from them (i.e. hunting or foraging,) is to be executed.
One day, Travis had been in a sour mood. He and his father couldn’t stop bickering, his father’s constant belittlements of his abilities and lack of presence wounding Travis. They had argued. Travis spoke too loud. They heard footsteps nearing, but Travis had been on the inconspicuous side of the fence. He managed to run and hide. His father was not so lucky, being caught crawling from beneath it.
The Peacekeeper, clearly having been transferred from another district, and not understanding how lenient District Twelve was with the rules, had shot him instantly. Travis and his remaining family were questioned for their involvement with the aforementioned “stealing,” something he managed to convince them they knew nothing of. He survived. Javi and his mother survived. But his dad, his stupid, absolute dick of a father, was gone. And it was all Travis’ fault.
Travis’ mother had been heartbroken when her husband was caught; she shut down completely, despite the fact that they spent more time arguing than anything else. He supposed he could understand. His father was an asshole—a horrible, angry man, who resented his son. And yet, Travis can’t help but hate the fact that he was gone. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps it was love. Either way, Travis did his best to ignore it most days. His guilt, or love, or whatever it was wouldn’t help him to survive another day.
Travis walks at the brink of dawn towards the Meadow, the part of district twelve that closes off the wilderness from the streets. It’s typically supposed to be electrified—to protect the citizens of district twelve from predators that lurk on the outskirts of it—but due to the district’s lack of funding (and care from the capitol), the electricity is nearly never on. Still, Travis is careful to listen for the quiet hum of electricity. It would be awfully embarrassing if he had died due to his own stupidity.
When he hears nothing but the quiet chirping of a bird, he flattens himself on his stomach, and crawls beneath a small gap in the fence. Swallowing thickly and pushing the memory of his father dying out of his mind, he shimmies his way to the other side of the fence. The grass is dewy, wetting his shirt. Thankfully, he doesn’t get covered in mud—it would be a dead giveaway that he had been outside of the confines of the district.
Once he makes it to the woods, Travis finds his father’s hand-crafted bow that he had stashed away inside of a hollow log. He’d marked it with his knife, a few slashes that looked enough like a wild animal's claw marks to prevent anyone else who may be out here from finding it. He climbs a tree, carefully ascending from limb to limb. The sun is rising steadily now, making it much easier for him to actually see what on earth he’s doing.
He shoots a few birds and a rabbit with ease, gathering what plants he knows are safe to harvest. His mother and Javi will check them later to see if they’re edible—no matter how many times they try to show him what is and isn’t toxic, it never sticks in his mind. Regardless, he gathers, and hopes that at least some of it will be edible. He snacks on a few wild blueberries, breathing in the air and letting the sun shine on his face; then, he hears it. A branch snapping directly behind him.
Travis quickly grabs his bow, lining up his shot, and is about to release the string, when he recognizes the figure. It’s Kevyn—Kevyn Tan. One of his classmates at school. Kevyn panics, throwing his hands in the air and letting out a shrill yelp.
“Hey– Dude, don’t point that thing at me!”
Travis’ eyes narrow. He moves the bow down, pointing to the muddy soil, but doesn’t release his tightly strung arrow. With the roll of his eyes, Travis begins his line of questioning.
“What do you want?” he asks, still alert. Kevyn stares at him warily, his hands still up in defense of himself. Travis nearly scoffs at him. As if he would risk killing somebody when his family—when Javi —depended on him so heavily. The idea that he’d so easily succumb to his annoyance and risk punishment from the Capitol, completely abandoning his family, makes Travis’ nostrils flare
“I– Wait, are those…?”
Kevyn’s eyes drift down to the pile of game Travis has caught for the day. His mouth waters, and his eyes widen. Travis scowls, picking up the soon to be butchered carcasses.
“If you’re looking for food, look somewhere else.”
Kevyn’s eyes darken, and he scurries off with a nod. Travis sighs in relief once he’s gone. He travels back to the fence, crawling beneath it and heading back home. He could trade a bit at the Hob, but he knows that his presence will calm Javi before his first real reaping. So, Travis decides to be as quick as possible before heading home.
He trades the rabbits for some good bread. It’ll go wonderfully with the cheese from Javi’s goat—a sad, sickly creature that surprisingly made a decent product. He keeps the blueberries, knowing how wonderful of a smile it’ll earn from Javi. He smiles softly to himself, and makes his way back to his small home.
Javi and his mother meet him by the door; his mother takes what he’s foraged and looks through it, while Javi’s eyes widen in excitement at the sweet fruit that his brother has returned with. He pops a few in his mouth and happily munches, before getting to work with his mother. The two have seemingly already prepared for the reaping; his mother wears a pretty dress, and Javi wears an oversized dress shirt that clearly used to belong to their father. Travis’ stomach drops, and he moves quickly to bathe in the lukewarm water awaiting him. After a while, he exits the tub, and pulls on another old dress shirt he’s sure belonged to his father. He swallows down bile that rises from his stomach. He doesn’t have a tie to wear, as he gave the only one they owned to Javi, and yet…
“You look nice,” Javi says distractedly, trying desperately to figure out how to tie the hand-me-down from Travis, and his older brother rolls his eyes fondly.
“So do you,” Travis says, “Hold on. That’s not how you do it.”
Travis reaches out slowly, his hands expertly tying the fancy tie to the collar of Javi’s shirt. Javi stands perfectly still as Travis does it, besides the fact that he’s fidgeting with a ring on his finger. Travis recognizes it as his father’s ring—a family heirloom. His father had been wearing it when he died. Travis had never told him what had happened, or how he got the ring. He supposed he didn’t want his little brother to know how truly weak he could be.
“There,” Travis says with the clear of his throat. Javi smiles up at him, so adoring, so fragile, that Travis kind of feels the urge to cry. He holds it together, patting Javi’s shoulder affectionately, before finishing getting ready himself. He pulls his younger brother into a hug, cradling his small face. Javi is as safe as someone eligible for the reaping can get; Travis knows that Javi’s more worried about him, however.
He feels guilt at how terrified Javi gets around this time—how scared he is that he’ll lose his brother. Travis hates it, hates how he can’t protect his brother from that fear. He does his best to keep him safe, but there’s nothing he can do about the reaping. He can’t stop it. He can’t fix it. So, he does his best to make Javi’s chances smaller.
What’s remaining of the Martinez family files out of their home at one in the afternoon, heading to the Square to prepare for the reaping. Attendance is mandatory, unless you’re on your deathbed or you simply wish to be imprisoned. The somber family signs in; Travis ruffles Javi’s hair before he joins the group of other twelve year olds. Travis heads over to the seventeen year olds, and waits. The Square fills, becoming more and more cramped with the overpopulated district’s citizens. People who show up late are directed to further places in the street, where they can watch whatever happens on the large broadcasting screen.
Travis makes eye contact with Javi, who’s nervously fidgeting with the ring once again. He smiles softly at him, which Javi tries to replicate, but it comes out as more of a grimace.
“It’ll be okay,” Travis mouths, and Javi nods, despite the fact that they both know it’s entirely up to chance. Still, the odds are in Javi’s favor. If anything, Travis should be more worried right now—twenty-seven of the slips in the drawing bowl say his name. Travis swallows, his throat suddenly dry.
On stage are two occupied chairs. One for the mayor—a short, red-faced man who has more hair on his knuckles than on his head—and one for the district’s escort. District Twelve’s escort is a strange, eccentric young woman with simultaneously the tallest and ugliest wig Travis has ever seen. He fights the urge to roll his eyes at her. She’s chipper, pretending it's a great honor to be the escort for the district. In reality, she probably got stuck doing twelve as some sort of hazing or punishment from the capitol. Travis shakes his head, realizing why the two are concernedly looking around the square.
The third chair must be for the tribute’s mentor, any winners from District Twelve. There’s only one. In seventy four years, only one person from District Twelve has won. Great odds. Ben Scott, an alcoholic middle-aged man, is seemingly missing from the ceremony that he’s supposed to smile and wave at, before meeting the next two scared kids who will surely die a horrible, painful death.
Ben staggers onto stage, mumbling incoherently to himself. He flops down into the chair, carrying a bottle of some kind of liquor. The ceremony begins. The mayor provides a brief description of the hunger games and why they are necessary and good, the same rambling that he provides every year. His voice doesn’t get any less annoying this time around.
He reads, blabbering on and on about Panem and its history. About the droughts, the hurricanes, and just about any other natural disaster you can think of. He reads about how Thirteen Districts and a shining Capitol were all that remained. Then, he gets into the spiel about the Dark Days—how the districts rose against the Capitol, and are, ultimately, the reason that the Hunger Games exist in the first place.
They’re horrid, terrifying environments that twenty-four children enter, and only one comes out of. They’re a punishment, a way to remind the citizens of Panem how truly powerless and afraid they are; despite whatever kind wording the capitol uses to explain their misdeeds, the message is clear to everyone.
It’s treated as a festivity, a holiday, one big amazing show. Whoever wins is set for life, sure, and their district is showered in gifts; meanwhile, the rest of the districts battle starvation. Travis swallows down the bile rising through his throat, and tries his best to school his expression to be neutral. It only sort-of works.
The mayor then lists the winners, or, rather, winner , from district twelve. Ben seems to take this as an invitation and hobbles up to the microphone, drunkenly mumbling his way through what seems to be an old drinking song. The crowd applauds him—a tradition they’re all too afraid to break—and he seems to fight back the urge to hurl.
Travis catches Javi’s gaze, and sends him a light-hearted smile. Javi smiles back. The district’s escort clears her throat and begins the process of drawing names. She announces that it will be “Ladies first!” as excitedly as someone can be, and Travis holds his breath.
“Natalie Scatorccio!” Calls the escort, most definitely butchering the last name beyond recognition. Travis recognizes it, but…he can’t quite place it. Suddenly, a small, frail looking girl walks forward, and is brought up on stage. Travis feels the wind get knocked out of his lungs.
The ring. He recognizes her because she helped him get that damn ring.
Natalie Scatorccio was a small girl who was in Travis’ class. He never paid her much mind, and she did the same for him. That is, until Travis’ father died. It wasn’t enough of a punishment that they had killed him. No, that would be far too forgiving of a death. Instead, they opted to keep his body on display near the Martinez’s house—Travis supposed they had a feeling they had known about the hunting, and wanted to punish the living members too. His father’s body lay motionless in the street, protected by two Peacekeepers throughout the day, but Travis soon discovered that they often left his body to rot alone during the night.
Travis had been so angry at everything. At the Peacekeepers, at his father, at his mother, and at himself. He had been infinitely more cruel due to his grief, even going so far as throwing away Javi’s small scrap of sweater that used to belong to their father. He felt horrible, like a failure. So, he did what any rational kid would do. He took a knife and marched down to the street they were keeping his body, and attempted to pry his ring off his cold, bloated fingers.
He couldn’t do it. He gagged and sobbed, desperately trying to keep his voice down so no-one would find him. Someone did catch him, eventually. It was Natalie. She wordlessly lifted the ring off of his deceased father, placed it smoothly in Travis’ palm, then ran off. Travis sniffled, holding the ring close to him in utter confusion. Then, he ran back home, calmed himself, and gave Javi the ring the next morning. It was the first time he’d seen his little brother smile in what felt like forever.
Travis blinks, hearing the escort say something about Natalie and who she is, but he can’t process any of it. Natalie is putting on a pretty damn good brave face, but she’s shaking like a leaf. There are no volunteers. Natalie has been reaped for the seventy-fourth hunger games. He swallows nervously, sweat accumulating on his palms. Natalie was as good as dead, and he’d never be able to pay her back for her helpfulness, or even understand why she helped him.
But he can’t focus on that now. After all, there’s still another tribute to be reaped.
The district escort shakes her hand, and everyone claps, as is tradition. Then, she reaches her hand back into the large bowl, this time for a male tribute. Travis feels sick. The only thought racing through his mind is, “ Please don’t be me. I need to be here. I need to protect them. ”
The small slip of paper is picked. The district escort reads it with a smile. Then, she says into the microphone, “Javier Martinez!” as if Travis’ whole life wasn’t turned upside down in seconds flat.
The world stops. If Travis had thought he was out of breath before, it was nothing compared to now. He hears unhappy murmurs, a custom whenever twelve-year-olds are reaped, and sees the other kids stepping aside to let Javi through. His tie has come loose, and Javi tries his best to retighten it. He begins walking forward, teary-eyed, and on the verge of throwing up.
It’s not right. It’s not fair. Javi’s name was only added once . Once! Travis had done everything right. He didn’t let him take out any tesserae. He performed the odd jobs, the scary jobs. He protected his little brother the best he could. It’s completely irrational, completely unfair, but who is Travis kidding? None of this is ever fair. Before he knows it, the words are tumbling out of Travis’ mouth.
“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!” he panickedly shouts, earning many surprised looks. There hasn’t been a volunteer in many years, if ever, in district twelve. The mayor stares at Travis with a pained expression. The district escort smiles widely, albeit awkwardly, as this isn’t exactly following all of the protocol. Ben stares curiously.
Javi screams the word, “No!” over and over. He rushes towards Travis, clinging to him desperately. “No, Travis, you— you can’t !”
“Javi, let go,” Travis says with a stony expression. He sounds much harsher than he means to, but he really, really can’t afford to cry right now. He’ll be marked as an easy target—he’ll be one of the first to go. “Let go,” he repeats, snarling. Javi flinches, but his grip is tight. Someone, Travis isn’t sure who, lifts Javi and drags him off of Travis while the young boy kicks and screams. Travis rushes towards the stage as quickly as possible, letting the crowd close behind him so that Javi can’t get any closer to him. He takes a deep breath, and climbs up the stairs and onto the stage.
“Wonderful! Simply divine! What an amazing show of the true spirit of the games!” says the tributes’— his district’s escort. She seems pleased to know that the district she’s hosting in will finally have an interesting thing happen that isn’t completely humiliating. “What is your name, dear?”
“Travis,” he starts, blinking back the tears that want desperately to well in his eyes and fall, “Travis Martinez.”
Her mouth falls open in a satisfied smile, before she cheerfully exclaims, “Well, I’d bet my buttons that’s your brother! Can’t have him stealing all of the glory, eh? Well, District Twelve, let’s hear a warm round of applause for our newest tribute!”
Nobody claps. Not a single person. Instead, they touch three fingers of their left hand to their lips, before holding them to the sky—an old, rarely used gesture of the district, used to express admiration, thanks, and a goodbye to somebody you love. Travis swallows hard. He hadn’t thought he was very well-liked in his district, but volunteering for Javi seems to have caused a shift in his public perception. Travis uses all of his mental strength to avoid crying.
He’s saved by Ben, who staggers towards him and begins congratulating him. He laughs, stumbling hard, and slurs, “I like it! You’ve got…you’ve got spunk kid!” Ben then chases after a camera, and shouts that Travis has more ‘spunk’ than those watching via pointing into the recording and laughing.
Travis realizes that Ben is truly, honestly crazy. He’s drunk, sure, but to potentially openly insult the capitol? His lips press into a thin line, and before Ben can say anything more incriminating against himself, he takes too confident of a step forward and plummets off the stage. All the cameras train on him, and Travis exhales deeply in relief. He lets out a small, choked sound, then composes himself once more.
He sees the mountains in the distance, the forest that he spent the morning in. He thinks about his deceased father, about his barely-hanging-on mother, and about his poor, terrified little brother. Travis is glad for once that he spoke before thinking. Ben is rushed off in a stretcher, as he’s knocked himself unconscious from his fall, and the district escort smiles and exclaims that it’s been, “Such an exciting day!”
The mayor stands awkwardly to Travis’ right; he continues his mandated ramblings from the capitol, albeit this time much more…stoic, and then he gestures for Travis to shake hands with Nat. It’s tradition for the tributes to shake hands—almost like it’s not a fight to the death and, instead, a really intense game.
Travis holds his hand out first. Natalie meets him in the middle. They shake hands, and Trvais isn’t sure if it’s him or Natalie that’s trembling. Maybe it’s both. Regardless, they shake hands. Natalie squeezes his hand in what is either an attempt at being kind and reassuring, or a muscle spasm. The anthem of Panem plays, and the two face the crowd.
Travis realizes bitterly that now he’ll have time to thank Natalie. He hopes it comes off as sincere and not as a desperate attempt to prevent her from trying to kill him. Hopefully someone else will kill her, he finds himself thinking. It isn’t super likely I’ll have to do it.
Then again, the odds didn’t exactly seem to be in his favor lately.