Chapter Text
Shane Hollander sat across the breakfast table from his father, David. His mother had already left this morning to greet the train. Shane wouldn’t see her before the reaping, but she’d say goodbye before heading to the Capital.
They sat in silence while waiting for the eggs to finish cooking. They were lucky to have them – more fortunate than most of the people in District Six. Eggs were hard to come by in their Northern Climate – chickens often got eaten by wolves in the night – but Shane’s family lived in a safer neighbourhood.
The Victor’s Village was a series of “luxury” homes on the outskirts of town. Shane had lived there his whole life, all because his mother was one of their District’s two Victors. It came with a comfortable salary by District standards. Enough to keep them fed with more nutrients than most. Enough to turn on the heating in the winter sometimes. They’d kept it off today, opting to sit near the stove while they cooked breakfast. They’d be out of the house for the rest of the morning anyway.
David pulled the eggs off the stove, dividing them into two plates. Shane noticed he’d put more on his son’s.
“Dad,” Shane started to protest. David just waved him off.
“Do you want some jam on your toast? Since it’s a special occasion?” David looked at his son with a little hope, but Shane was quick to shake his head. It didn’t feel like a special occasion. He didn’t want it to.
Today was just a regular day, like any other. He’d have his regular breakfast and then they’d go where they needed to go. Because today was going to be just like any other day. It was just the morning that was different. He’d be back in this house by the afternoon. Always was.
“Well, I’m gonna have some,” said David, slathering a thin layer of jam on his toast – mixed berry, preserved in the summer months when Shane would pick them with his mother. They’d go hunting in the spring and summer every year – try to stock up for the winter with enough food to feed themselves and anyone who might need it. But that wasn’t the only reason. Hunting was good practice, and so was foraging. His mother always wanted Shane to be prepared, just in case a day like today didn’t turn out as normal as they’d hoped.
But everything was going to be fine. He was seventeen now. This was his final year and his name was only in the reaping once. The odds were in his favor.
“Eat ‘em before they get cold,” David said as he placed Shane’s plate in front of him. He’d organized the scrambled eggs into a curve at the bottom of the plate, with the two small pieces of toast at the top, like a smiling face. Shane looked up at his dad who gave him a stiff but encouraging smile. Shane grimaced back, digging in.
“You’ll want your good coat this morning,” said David through a mouthful of eggs. “Cold front blowing in.”
“I know.” Shane swallowed his dry toast, the texture going down like sandpaper.
“And your mother will be wanting you to pick up some stuff at the market after.”
Shane nodded. Yuna Hollander ran a tight ship – she made sure they ate well, staying in good shape, and lived as good of lives as they could manage. Shane was grateful for his mother. She’d made the sacrifices that had given him everything he’d ever had. He was going to miss her.
His mother left with the Tributes every year. As a Mentor, she’d stay in the Capital until the games concluded and then return home. Except for one year, when she’d had to extend her travels to tour the other districts, because as of two years ago, there was now two Victors in the Village.
David eyed the clock above the stove. “You better go wake him up.”
Shane put his fork down, plate scraped clean. “Why can’t he wake himself up?”
David gave his son a look. Shane hated that look.
“Fine.” He pushed his chair back, bringing his plate and cutlery to the sink.
“I’ll clean those,” said David. “Go get him or you’ll be late.”
---
Shane didn’t bother knocking on the door – he knew it wouldn’t be locked anyway. He pushed the door open, letting it creak loudly on its hinges, and stepped inside. The smell of bourbon hit him instantly.
Shane scrunched up his nose and ditched his heavy coat and boots in the foyer, hanging the former up on the unused coat rack.
He padded inside, socked feet stepping over a questionable puddle on the hardwood floor, and made his way up the stairs. The houses in the Victor’s Village were some of the only ones with two stories in town. The others belonged to government officials and the police.
It didn’t take him long to find the bedroom – this wasn’t the first time Shane had been here. Especially for this reason. That door was open too, revealing empty bottles strewn about with piles of clothes tossed on the floor. A chair in the corner of the room had a pair of white women’s panties hanging off of it. Shane cringed.
And of course, as usual, lying prone on the bed with his mouth hanging open, bourbon on his breath, was Ilya Rozanov. Shane sighed. If he wasn’t even half-awake by now, that meant today was going to be a bad day.
“Ilya.” Shane went for gentle first, cautiously walking into the room. Ilya didn’t budge.
“Ilya.” Shane went for louder this time, reaching out to place a hand on Ilya’s shoulder—
A hand clamped like a vice around his wrist, and before he could make a move, Shane’s shoulder slammed into the floor hard, his other arm wrenched behind his back.
“It’s me!” he groaned. “It’s Shane. Hollander.”
“Hollander…” Shane had enough movement left to crane his head to look at Ilya. His eyes were wide, wild, trying to focus. They found Shane’s and Shane watched as Ilya took stock of where he was.
The grip on his wrist loosened and then Ilya slumped back hard on the bed with a groan. “Sorry.”
“Whatever.” Shane rubbed his wrist as he got up. The skin was a little red. He wouldn’t be surprised if it bruised tomorrow. His shoulder definitely would.
“Reaping’s in an hour.” Shane nudged Ilya’s foot that was hanging off the bed. “You gotta get up.”
Ilya just groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “It’s too bright. Can you—” He gestured to the curtains that were cracked open.
Shane sighed, stomping over and pulling them shut. “My mom’s already at the station. You need to be at Town Hall by the time they start.”
Ilya just groaned again.
Shane grabbed the pitcher of water on the nightstand, pouring some into a glass that still had a brown liquor stain at the bottom. Oh well, maybe the flavor would actually get Ilya to drink it.
“Here.” Shane shoved it into his hands, making sure he had enough of a grip on it before letting go. “One hour. And don’t be late. You’re a Mentor, you have to be there.”
Ilya didn’t budge.
Shane sighed. He didn’t have time for this. “I have to go get ready. I’ll see you at the reaping.”
He stormed out of the room, avoiding the puddle at the bottom of the stairs again. His only solace was hearing a thump of life from upstairs as he headed out the door.
---
Fabian Salah had only been the Capital Correspondent for District 6 for three years. He’d been the one to pull Ilya’s name from the bowl. He was a nice enough guy, was good at marketing the Tributes, and known for being aloof yet kind, but Ilya would always hate him a little bit.
Fabian didn’t fit in very well in District 6. In fact, he stood out like a sore thumb in his brightly coloured clothes straight from the Capital. Today he was wearing a hot pink snow suit that clung to every curve of his body down to alarmingly slim-heeled boots definitely not made for this weather. The jacket had a white fur hood that doubled the size of his head. And of course, because it was Fabian, the whole thing was covered in sparkles.
“Hello, darling!” Fabian called as Ilya walked into city hall. He hated this. He hated this building. He hated these people. He hated this day.
Ilya stood stiffly and didn’t bite off Fabian’s head when he kissed his cheek.
“A little chilly this morning, are we?” Fabian joked. Or scolded. It was hard to tell with him.
He glanced at Yuna with a conspiratorial glance. She went for a friendly smile back.
Ilya eyed his Mentor. She was dressed more practically – white coat to blend in with the snow, thick boots made to keep her feet warm. Ilya had a matching pair on his feet. It had been the first thing Yuna had brought him after they’d gotten back from…after Ilya had moved into the Village.
Despite his frosty exterior, Ilya actually liked Yuna Hollander. She was practical and competent and generous when called for. She’d been good to him, both during his Games and after. Even if being good to him often meant sending her goody-goody son to convince Ilya to leave the warmth of his bed and booze to brave their miserable fucking tundra of a town. At least the boy wasn’t too bad to look at, even if he was normally frowning when he looked at Ilya. And he was nice to the girls Ilya brought home if they hadn’t been run off by the morning. Or he was at least cordial. Except for with Ilya. Shane Hollander definitely hated Ilya Rozanov.
“They’re ready for you,” said a gruff voice behind them. Ilya tensed immediately, knowing what or rather, who, he’d see as soon as he turned around. So he didn’t.
“Thank you,” said Fabian cheerily. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
Fabian strutted past, heels clicking on the marble floor. This building, like all the government buildings, was the most opulent in town. Ilya should know – he’d practically grown up here.
“Ilya.” That voice again.
Yuna raised an eyebrow in that motherly way she always did. Ilya just shook his head, jaw clenching. She sighed and walked past.
Ilya turned reluctantly to face his father, meeting cold eyes. “Colonel.”
The head of the town’s police gazed at his son with disappointment. “It has been a while. I have not seen you. Neither has your brother.”
“I have been busy.”
The way Grigori’s eye twitched said he knew exactly what Ilya had been busy with. Booze. Women. Laziness. All things much below the standing of the Rozanovs.
Grigori nodded once and turned to walk away. As an afterthought, he called, “Happy Hunger Games,” over his shoulder.
Ilya didn’t return the sentiment as his father walked away. Instead, he took two deep breaths and fished out the flask from his coat pocket. After a long swig, he walked out to the stage.
---
Shane tried to keep his palms from sweating in his mitts. They were a good pair – elk skin, made by his father after Shane and Yuna had dragged it in from a hunt a couple years ago. They’d been big when they’d made them, but Shane had grown into them now.
He could see his mom now. She was standing at the back of the stage with Ilya Rozanov at her side, both of them stiff, eyes trained forward into the crowd. There was a brief second where Yuna’s eyes skated over Shane before tracking back to land on him. He gave his mom a small smile. Her lips twitched back.
“Happy Hunger Games!” announced Fabian Salah on stage. He was wearing an absolutely ridiculous outfit. A couple of boys behind Shane had been joking about it before the ceremony started. Shane had no idea how they had it in them on a day like today.
Fabian played the usual video about the rebellion. The reason for the Games. The reason they were at the reaping. Shane tried to tune it out like he always did, breathing deep, centering himself, keeping his heartrate calm.
It was fine. Today was just a regular day. He’d be home in an hour.
“May the odds be ever in your favour,” Fabian announced as the video concluded.
Odds. Shane hated odds. His name was only in there once but that was still enough.
No. He couldn’t think like that. Not today.
“For our first tribute…” Fabian walked to bowl with flare and dug around. He pulled out a little slip of paper before strutting back to the microphone.
Every muscle in Shane’s body tensed.
“Peter Landry!” Fabian announced. Shane let out a sigh of relief. He was safe. For now. See, just a regular day. And after today, he’d never have to do this again.
There was silence from the crowd, but Peter was quickly identified. He was tall and gangly with shockingly red hair. He was standing with two other boys and a girl that looked just like him. All of their faces were ashen.
Shane could see Peter swallow from where he stood before the boy took a hesitant step forward. Then a hand shot out to grip his wrist. Peter swung around, finding the slight fingers attached to an even slighter girl. Shane saw Peter’s eyes widen, saw him mouth, “No,” before the red-headed girl stepped in front of him.
“I volunteer!” Her voice rang through the courtyard, cutting through the frigid air. Her breath formed a cloud as she spoke, like the words were a physical thing leaving her body.
“No—” Peter tried to grab who Shane presumed was his sister but the girl just started marching for the stage.
“I volunteer as tribute!” she called again, as if the silence from before had been too overpowering for anyone to hear her. The other boys – their brothers – held Peter back as the girl marched determinedly up the steps and onto the stage. Her face was still ashen, but her eyes were fierce.
Fabian took it in stride, seeming to love the drama. “A volunteer! How wonderful!” He wrapped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her toward the microphone. “And what is your name, my dear?”
The girl suddenly looked less sure of her decision as she eyed the gathered crowd. What she had just signed up for seemed to be rapidly sinking in. For her sake, Shane hoped she could at least stay standing until they cut the cameras. It wouldn’t gain her any favour in the Capital if she fainted now.
Fabian gave her shoulder a squeeze and another one of his signature smiles.
The girls swallowed and then said in a small voice, “Rose Landry.”
“Rose Landry!” Fabian announced gleefully. “How special. And what a beautiful name for such a beautiful girl.”
He guided Rose to step back. She followed on shaking legs until she was standing next to Yuna and Ilya. Shane’s mom gave her a reassuring smile, focusing on calming down the frightened girl.
“And now for our second tribute…” Fabian pranced back to the bowl of names, plucked one from deep at the bottom, and went back to the microphone.
Shane tensed up again. The excitement had almost made Shane forget why he was here. What could happen to him today.
Or not. Because of course, it wouldn’t.
He tried to keep his breathing under control. In for four…out for four. In for four…It was fine. Everything was going to be fine. The odds were in his favor. His name was only in once. It was just a regular—
“Shane Hollander.”