Chapter Text
“Ladies and gentlemen, let the forty-fourth Hunger Games begin!”
Youngjae rubs his eyes, as if that will make the dismal scene before him any better. They are in what seems to be an abandoned city square: the golden Cornucopia stands tall as the central landmark of the city, like a memorial for some rich musician. The tributes’ metal platforms form a circle around it. Supplies are strewn across the ground like litter. Everywhere he looks, once beautiful but now derelict buildings surround the square, gradually reaching higher as they grow further away; the city is a perfectly constructed valley, encircled by hills. To his left, grey cliffs overshadow the edge of the city, and to his right, a rocky mountain, and at its skirt, a broad line of dark green. Trees!
Heart hammering in his chest, he instantly searches for Daehyun, to show him the way he intends to go. With each panicked or concentrated face that isn’t Daehyun’s, however, Youngjae grows more fearful. He must be on the other side of the square, hidden behind the Cornucopia! Damn it . But surely he'll figure it out. Youngjae is from District 7 – where else would he go? Right?
Half of the sixty seconds must have passed by now. Five tributes to his left, Junhong is considering the supplies before him. He must have sensed Youngjae’s stare, though: he looks up and scowls. Youngjae didn’t think Junhong was capable of expressing such dislike. He gulps, trying to ignore the discomfort – he was the one who caused it in the first place, after all. He hastily glances at the supplies too. He’ll need food and water. It’ll take him hours to climb uphill to get there, and that is if he can manage it today. If he gets injured, or needs to hide somewhere, he might have to camp in one of the houses.
Brushing thoughts about possible unpleasant surprises in the buildings aside, he moves one leg in front of the other and shifts his weight, ready to sprint. Fist-sized foil packages, like the ration packs they’re given at lunch during summers in the lumber mills, are scattered everywhere. There’s a water bottle a couple of metres from him, and another couple of metres behind that, an axe. An axe! The blade is smaller than the ones at home and in the Training Centre, but it’ll do the job, and at least he won’t feel completely vulnerable until Daehyun finds him. Youngjae smiles in spite of his predicament: the Gamemakers must have put it that close to him on purpose. They must want him to at least have a fighting chance.
The gong booms through the arena, and Youngjae lurches forward. He stoops down to first grab the bottle, and then holds the axe handle down with his foot, as he stuffs his pocket with the bottle and as many ration packs as he can reach from where he is. At the Cornucopia, Yongguk is standing with a sword raised high, red spattered across his face. The twelve-year-old boy from District 6 lies on the floor beside him, completely still. In horror, Youngjae’s hand trembles as he picks the axe up and rises to his feet, and tries to get away on shaky legs.
When he reaches the first building on the edge of the square, he hesitates, before looking back over his shoulder. A few more of the younger tributes are dead, and the concrete is stained with blood. Some are running away from the Cornucopia too, in other directions, but at least a dozen remain in the city centre, battling for possession of all the supplies. Youngjae’s jaw drops when both tributes from District 10 tackle the powerful girl from District 2 to the ground, and spear her through her heart. A Career Tribute, dead within minutes!
After a sharp shake of his head, he finally finds who he’s been searching for: Daehyun has got his hands on a trident, and is wielding it with terrifying precision. The boy he’s fighting stands no chance; the trident plunges into the warmth of his neck, and pulls the life back out of it. Youngjae gulps: which part of Daehyun is the real one? But now isn’t the time for thinking. Daehyun is fully immersed in the horror of the bloodbath, and hasn’t looked about him or noticed Youngjae’s cowering figure. Youngjae doesn’t have time to wait. Somebody else could notice and charge at him at any time. He’s stood here for too long. With one last look at Daehyun, he turns forward and runs away from death.
After he finally managed to stumble onto the podium, Youngjae thrust his shaking hands into his pockets. The cameras were sure to catch any sign of weakness. Though his heart was pounding against his ribs, he raised his chin as the bright blue-haired escort from the Capitol asked for any volunteers.
The neat rows of tribute-aged children close to the stage were standing silently, but he didn’t miss the way many shoulders sagged in relief: in the relief that they had been spared. Disgruntled murmuring began near the other end of the square, where the rest of the district had been crammed. They were disappointed in this year’s pickings: the small red-haired girl next to Youngjae was thirteen at most, and she kept using the sleeve of her cardigan to dry her cheeks. Youngjae wasn’t looking too impressive either; his slim body showed no proof of the endless summer hours hacking at wood with an axe, and the boy on the large screen at the side of the square seemed to be a year or two short of the seventeen he really was.
Another unsuccessful Hunger Games for District 7. Nobody volunteered in the child’s stead, and nobody came to Youngjae’s rescue.
Once the mayor’s rambling speech had finished, he was made to shake hands with the female tribute. Despite his own inner turmoil, he tried to squeeze her hand reassuringly: if this was how he felt, he could only imagine the fear that the piece of paper with her name on enveloped her with. He couldn’t tell if it was her hand that was sweating or his, but she didn’t look at him.
A hand on his back ushered him into the Justice Building. His mother shed a few tears, and his father couldn’t look him in the eye. His brother sighed heavily, and said he was sorry. Last year was his brother’s last reaping: Youngjae wondered if his brother would have volunteered to take his place if he had been a year younger. Probably not. Youngjae said his farewells quickly, and boarded the tribute train without raising his eyes from the other tribute’s feet. A backward glance might have been all he needed to make a fool of himself by sobbing. Not for his family or his friends, but for himself.
As soon as the train pulled away from the station, the red-haired girl pushed past him with her hand covering her face, and Youngjae didn’t see her for the rest of the journey. He could do with being alone for a while, too. He saw what seemed to be a lounge, but a tall man sitting back in an expensive armchair, with his feet resting on a footstool, made him hesitate at the doorway. He looked young – perhaps in his late twenties – and was watching the reapings on a flat screen built into the wall, with his hands folded behind his head, and his black suit beginning to get creased. Youngjae had never seen a television like that: the one at home was more like a box, with a grainy yellowed screen that was round at the edges, and flickered if anybody got too close to the antenna on top. Now that he was thinking about it, this was his first time in a train meant for passengers (rich ones at that), and not a dark rusty one for stacks of lumber.
“Either come in or go somewhere else,” said the man in a harsh raspy voice, making Youngjae start. “Don’t just stand there like a lost lamb.” He didn’t have a Capitol accent.
Slowly, Youngjae entered the room, and perched on the edge of a chair. “Who are you?” he asked, “If you don’t mind me asking,” he added hastily.
The man sighed and turned his head to look at Youngjae with his jaw clenched, as if talking to this kid with an expiry date written across his forehead was the last thing he wanted to do. “Have you honestly never seen me before?”
On a better day, Youngjae might have found something familiar in the smooth skin or high cheekbones or sharp features, but right now, his mind was blank. He shook his head.
The man rolled his eyes in disappointment, but there was something vulnerable about his reaction too, as though the man not being recognised hurt his pride or self-esteem. “Kim Himchan,” he drawled, “victor of the 34th Games, and therefore, your mentor in this one.”
“That was ten years ago.”
“I was your age.”
“So how come I’ve never seen you before? You weren’t on the stage today.”
Himchan shifted uncomfortably, but shot him a glare from under his heavy brows. “I was getting ready. It’s not easy, looking this good.”
Youngjae tried not to frown in confusion. Himchan wasn’t wrong – he was extremely handsome – but there didn’t seem to be any effort on his part: he was naturally attractive. Styling his hair away from his face couldn’t have taken that long, and his dark circles hadn’t been concealed at all.
“I’ll rewind to the start. You should see who you’re going to be up against.”
Youngjae fidgeted with the hole in his sleeve as he watched. A tall and shrewd-looking girl stepped forward in District 1, and the boy, though he seemed short beside her, was muscular. A well-built and heavily tattooed boy from District 2 volunteered to be tribute and quite literally thrust his way onto the podium, and the girl looked like she could knock Youngjae out in under a second. The boy from District 3 was younger, but tall and lanky. To Youngjae’s surprise, though District 4 seemed to be Youngjae’s age, he was unabashedly crying. District 6’s female tribute looked twice the size of Youngjae, but the boy seemed twelve years old. All in all, apart from a few weaklings, the odds didn’t seem to be in his favour too much. He’d be lucky to outlive to bloodbath on the first day in the arena.
Then the little girl from his own district was being called up. He wanted to feel sorry for her, but pity wasn’t going to save her life in the arena. Besides, her life meant his death. His stumble was barely noticeable, and he seemed surprisingly calm on camera. Rather than nervous and dismayed at the turn of events, he appeared to be bored, sullen even.
“Have a plan?” Himchan asked with an air of disinterest after the tributes from District 12 shook hands. “You don’t look like you can win through physical strength.”
“I’m alright with an axe.”
“But can you depend on that to win?” he said flatly.
Youngjae fell silent.
Himchan sighed. “Any other physical skills?”
“I don’t know. I’m a fast runner, I guess. I can climb trees. I can swim.”
Himchan nodded slowly in approval. “Anything else? Doesn’t have to be physical.”
Encouraged, Youngjae continued. “I’m good at speaking, usually. I’m a good liar. At pretending, or hiding my thoughts and feelings.” He thought about the effortless lies he told his friends and family, and how easily convinced they were.
“I can see that,” Himchan said, somewhat pleased. “Physical strength isn’t the only way to win. Luck comes in useful, and so does wit, and good allies and sponsors. If you play your cards well in the next week, you might actually have a slight chance.”
“Wow, thanks. I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement and support.”
Himchan let out a bark-like laugh. “If you’re going to cry, you may as well go have a nice sob in the shower now. There’s still a while until dinner.”
Youngjae stared at Himchan in shock. The atmosphere, which had only just begun to feel easy and relaxed, was gone in an instant. His bottom lip wobbled.
“You look pretty surprised to me. I thought you were supposed to be good at keeping your composure.”
“It’s a lot to take when someone reminds you you’ll probably be dead in a week,” Youngjae said bluntly, as he rose from his chair.
Himchan looked unmoved. “Where are you going?”
“Taking up your suggestion.”
Panting, he crouches behind a rubbish bin, and reaches for the bottle. He takes one gulp of the water, and pushes it back into his jacket pocket, so he isn’t tempted to drink more.
The day is starting to get warm. He moves so that he’s seated on the dusty pavement, and pulls his legs in tightly as he presses his back against the bin, just in case. He estimates it to have been around twenty minutes since the gong, and he really shouldn’t have stopped so early, but there’s a pain in his thigh, and he figures it’s better to take it in short bursts with frequent two-minute breaks, rather than push himself too hard. He massages his thigh for the second minute, then carefully shifts his weight to his feet again. He should get going now.
A haunting shriek floods down the barren street. It’s followed by another, but this one is cut short by what sounds like a scuffle or a fall.
Youngjae grips the bin handle, and cautiously peers through the gap near the top. Fifty metres away, Red Hair seems to have been tripped to the floor. She’s holding one of her legs with both hands, and is trying to back away from something by pushing her body back with the other leg. The fear and agony on her face is enough to make Youngjae’s knuckles white. He can hear the light sound of footfalls, and then the tall, sly girl from District 1 emerges from a side street, swinging a long knife as she approaches Red Hair’s shuddering figure. It’s then that Youngjae sees the small knife hilt protruding from her shin.
The District 1 girl cackles. It’s a proud, hateful sound. “Did you really think we’d let a weak little twig like you steal this and get away with it?” she sneers as she roughly pats Red Hair’s body down, before snatching a thin black shape from between her clothes. Red Hair twitches violently every time the girl’s hand touches her. “What were you even going to do with this? Did the big boy and girl from 10 put you up to it?” she says in an exaggeratedly childish voice. “Did they promise they’d protect you if you did their dirty work?”
“You’ll never – win,” Red Hair stutters between sobs. “You can – kill – me, but – they’ll make you – pay – for it.”
Evidently surprised at such courage from a thirteen-year-old, the girl freezes, then scans both ways down the street, before relaxing again. “Your big friends aren’t here. They won’t know what happened,” she says silkily.
Youngjae bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. He should do something – not just because the cameras will be trained on him, and the people in his district will be tutting disappointedly – but because it’s right. While she hasn’t been the most cooperative or friendly partner, she’s only a little girl, and the last week must have been a disturbing nightmare for her. But what can Youngjae do, from such a distance? He can’t guarantee his axe will hit its mark, and the District 1 girl has shown how accurate she is at throwing her weapons. Even at close range, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to take her on successfully. And if she sees him try to stop or attack her but they both survive... well then he can say goodbye to any hopes of the Careers letting him in, and with it, that slim chance of coming out of these Games alive.
He has to let her go. He let Junhong go. What is she compared to Junhong? Himchan is right. He can’t be emotional if he wants to live. So he closes his eyes when the girl raises her knife, and squeezes them tighter at the sound of sharp metal piercing flesh and bone. It’s repeated a few more times – the girl isn’t taking any chances – until she exhales loudly, and runs back in the direction of the Cornucopia.
Youngjae waits a minute after her footsteps die out for good measure, then uses his frozen hold on the bin handle to hoist himself up. The street is completely silent. There she is, her red hair covering her face, so Youngjae doesn’t have to see her last scream of pain in her dead eyes. He’s seen enough anyway. Her body looks like a slab of meat on a board, hacked at ruthlessly. He can’t tell if her limbs are in the right places. Everything is drowned in blood.
He should go to her. He owes here that much at least. But he can’t. He can’t step any closer to the mangled mass of flesh that used to be a child. I’m sorry, he mouths. He clears his throat, and continues in a hoarse voice. “If I get the chance, she’ll be the first one I kill.”
He hopes that the cameras catch his quiet words, and the audience in the Capitol sits back in awe, surprised at the change from the animated tribute they saw in the interviews yesterday. That they see he has more up his sleeve than he let on. Himchan’s words from late last night echo in his head: the arena changes everyone. Until now, he wasn’t sure if he really could do it. Kill. The bloodbath genuinely frightened him. He knew they were capable of it, but to see mass murder like that right in front of you? Nobody could be the same after that. And he thinks he can do it, now. Go ahead with the plan.
The cannon hasn’t gone off yet for Red Hair, but there’s no way she’s still alive. Then Youngjae remembers how it is on the first day: so many deaths within the first hour that they don’t bother sounding the cannon or collecting the corpses until the initial excitement levels down. Looking at Red Hair one last time is the most he can do for her right now, so he does, trying to push down the bile that’s threatening to rise.
He can do it.