Chapter Text
District Twelve — Ilya
Ilya Rozanov was going to survive his last Reaping.
He had decided this approximately three weeks ago, when he'd realized that surviving the Reaping was the only thing he had to accomplish to guarantee himself a future.
Not a particularly good future.
But a future.
After today, his name would never be entered again.
He would be nineteen in four months. He would go down into the mines, like his brother. He would work until his lungs filled with coal dust or something collapsed on him. He would come home exhausted, eat whatever he could afford, and sleep.
Then he would do it again.
And again.
And again.
A beautiful life.
Really something to look forward to.
Ilya leaned against the wall outside the Justice Building and lit a cigarette.
He had forty-seven entries.
Forty-seven.
He'd counted them the previous night, lying in bed while his father coughed through the wall.
One for every year of eligibility, plus the additional entries for tesserae. Grain and oil for himself. For his father. A couple of times for his brother, even if Alexei had aged out and started earning some money.
Forty-seven slips of paper bearing his name.
He wondered whether they were all written in the same handwriting.
Probably.
Some miserable Capitol clerk, writing Ilya Rozanov forty-seven times.
He hoped they'd developed a cramp.
"Rozanov."
Ilya looked up.
Troy Berret stood a few feet away.
Seventeen.
Skinny.
Already missing two teeth from a fight outside the bakery.
"You got a cigarette?"
Ilya considered, could he spare one?.
Then held out the pack.
Troy took one.
"Thanks."
They smoked in silence.
After a while, Troy said: "Last one for you, huh?"
Ilya nodded.
"Yes."
"Lucky bastard."
Ilya looked at him: "Forty-seven times."
Troy winced.
"Fuck."
"Yes."
"Still. Last one."
Ilya took a drag.
"Very optimistic."
Troy grinned.
"Someone has to be."
Ilya looked toward the square.
Peacekeepers were arranging the younger children into lines.
He could see a boy who couldn't have been more than twelve standing beside his mother.
The boy was wearing a shirt too large for him.
His mother kept straightening the collar.
Again.
Again.
Again.
As though if she could make him look respectable enough, the Capitol might leave him alone.
Ilya looked away.
Ilya's mother had died when he was twelve.
That was the age he remembered most clearly.
Not because it was the year of his first Reaping.
Not because it was the year he'd first gone hungry enough to steal.
Because it was the year he'd learned that a person could disappear while everyone else was still standing in the same room.
His mother had been sad for a long time.
Not always.
That was the thing people didn't understand.
Sometimes she'd laughed, sometimes she'd sung while cooking,
sometimes she'd taken him into the woods and shown him which plants were safe to eat and which ones would make him sick.
She'd been funny.
Gentle.
She'd called him her beautiful boy.
And sometimes she'd sat beside the window for hours, looking at nothing.
Sometimes she hadn't gotten out of bed.
Sometimes she'd cried without making a sound.
Ilya remembered asking her once why she was sad.
She'd looked at him for a long time.
Then she'd said: "Everything, my love."
He hadn't understood.
He understood a little better now.
Which frightened him.
Because sometimes he woke up and couldn't remember why he was supposed to get out of bed.
Sometimes he looked at the mines and the grey streets and the people walking around with empty faces and thought that his mother had simply understood something before everyone else.
Sometimes he wished he could disappear too.
Not always.
That was the other thing.
There were good days.
There was sunlight through the trees.
There were rabbits caught in traps.
There was the satisfaction of climbing a rock face nobody else could manage.
There was laughter with boys who were stupid enough to fight him.
There were cigarettes and stolen apples and the rare pleasure of a full stomach.
He liked being alive on those days.
On the others, he tried not to think too much.
Today was not a good day.
His brother was waiting near the square.
Alexei looked older than twenty-six.
Everyone who worked in the mines looked older.
He had their father's dark hair and heavy eyebrows, but none of their mother's softness.
He looked at Ilya's cigarette.
"You're going to be late."
Ilya glanced at the clock.
"Have time."
"You always think you have time."
Ilya smiled.
"Usually correct."
Alexei didn't smile.
"Don't make a scene today."
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
"Was planning to dance.”
"Just shut your mouth for once."
Ilya looked at him.
For a moment, he considered saying something cruel.
Something about Alexei's permanent scowl.
Or the way he'd spent years pretending their father wasn't getting worse.
Or how he'd blamed Ilya for things neither of them had been able to prevent.
Instead, he shrugged.
"Enjoy Reaping, brother."
He walked away.
The ceremony began at noon.
The Capitol representative was a woman named Bellamy, who wore a dress the color of fresh blood and a wig shaped like a tower of pink sugar.
She smiled as though this were a celebration.
"Happy Hunger Games!"
Nobody answered.
Ilya appreciated that
Bellamy continued speaking.
The history.
The rebellion.
The importance of sacrifice.
The honor of representing one's district.
Ilya stopped listening.
He knew the speech.
Everyone knew the speech.
The Games existed because the districts had once rebelled against the Capitol.
Every year, twenty-four children were selected.
Every year, twenty-three died.
Every year, the Capitol celebrated.
Very educational.
"Ladies first!"
Bellamy approached the glass bowl.
Ilya looked at the sky.
Cloudy.
Might rain later.
He wondered whether the woods would be muddy tomorrow.
Then he remembered he wouldn't be allowed into the woods tomorrow if his name was called.
He smiled to himself.
Stupid thought.
Bellamy unfolded the slip.
"Katy Reid!"
A girl screamed.
Ilya looked toward the girls' section: a sixteen-year-old stood frozen while two Peacekeepers approached her.
He didn't know her.
He knew her father.
A baker.
Quiet man.
Always gave the smallest children the broken pieces of bread that couldn't be sold.
Ilya watched the girl walk toward the stage.
She was crying.
Nobody moved.
Nobody ever moved.
"And now, our young men!"
Bellamy reached into the second bowl.
Ilya's stomach tightened.
Forty-seven.
Forty-seven chances.
He looked down at his boots; one was beginning to split at the sole.
He'd have to fix that.
If he survived.
Bellamy unfolded the paper.
Smiled.
“Luca Haas!"
Ilya exhaled.
He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
For one beautiful second, he felt nothing but relief.
Not him.
Not him.
Not him.
He was going to live.
Then someone made a sound.
A small, broken noise.
Ilya looked up.
A boy was standing in the twelve-year-old section.
Tiny.
Fair-haired.
His face had gone completely white.
He looked around as though someone might explain what was happening.
Nobody did.
A Peacekeeper approached.
The boy backed away.
"No."
The Peacekeeper took his arm.
The boy started crying.
"No, please."
Ilya went still.
The boy couldn't have weighed more than thirty-five kilograms.
His shirt hung off his shoulders.
His wrists were thin.
He had the kind of face that still belonged to a child.
Because he was a child.
Twelve.
First Reaping.
One entry.
One fucking entry.
And he'd been chosen.
Ilya looked at the stage.
At Bellamy's bright smile.
At the cameras.
At the Peacekeepers.
At the boy being led toward his death.
He thought of his mother, of the way she'd looked at him when he was twelve. "My beautiful boy" she used to call him.
He thought of the mines.
Of Alexei.
Of his father's coughing.
Of the years stretching ahead.
He thought of the boy dying in the first ten seconds of the Games.
Because that was what would happen: he would run toward the supplies, someone bigger would kill him.
The Capitol would cheer.
His mother would watch.
And Ilya would remember his face.
Forever.
He closed his eyes.
Don't.
He knew what his brain was doing.
He knew this wasn't some noble revelation.
He knew there were parts of him that had been tired of living for a long time.
He knew that made this decision dangerous.
Don't be stupid.
The boy stumbled on the steps.
A Peacekeeper caught him.
The crowd was silent.
Ilya opened his eyes.
"Fuck."
Then he stepped forward.
"I volunteer."
Nobody heard him.
Or perhaps nobody understood.
He raised his voice.
"I volunteer!"
The Peacekeeper beside him turned.
Ilya looked toward the stage.
"I volunteer as tribute."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then Bellamy clapped her hands.
"Oh!"
Her smile widened.
"How wonderful!"
Ilya wanted to punch her.
The Peacekeeper escorted him forward.
Ilya walked past the twelve-year-olds.
Past the boy, Luca.
The child looked up at him. His face was wet.
"I—"
Ilya stopped.
For a moment, he didn't know what to say.
Then he crouched slightly.
"Go home."
The boy stared;
Ilya smiled faintly.
"Go. Before she changes mind."
Luca made a strange sound.
Half laugh,
half sob.
Then he threw his arms around Ilya.
Ilya froze.
He hadn't expected that.
The boy clung to him.
"Thank you."
Ilya swallowed.
He didn't want this.
Didn't want gratitude.
Didn't want the crowd looking at him like he'd done something beautiful.
He wasn't beautiful.
He was frightened.
And angry.
And tired.
And perhaps a little too willing to trade his own life for someone else's.
He gently pushed the boy away.
"Go."
Luca nodded.
Then ran.
Ilya watched him disappear into the crowd.
Only then did he climb the steps.
Bellamy was practically vibrating.
"A volunteer! From District Twelve!"
She turned toward the cameras.
"How extraordinary!"
Ilya looked at her.
"Yes. Very exciting."
The crowd made a small noise.
Bellamy laughed uncertainly.
"And your name, dear?"
"Ilya Rozanov."
"Wonderful! And how old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"Your final year!"
"Yes."
She pressed a hand to her chest.
"And you've chosen to sacrifice yourself for a younger boy.”
Ilya stared at her.
"Apparently."
Bellamy blinked.
"How brave!"
Ilya looked toward the crowd
.
He could see Alexei.
His brother was staring at him with an expression Ilya couldn't identify.
Anger.
Shock.
Perhaps both.
Their father hadn't come.
He hadn't been well enough.
Ilya wondered whether anyone would tell him.
Then Bellamy took his hand.
"And why did you do it?"
Ilya looked at her.
Then at the cameras.
He could feel the entire district watching.
He thought of Luca. Of the boy's thin wrists. Of his terrified face.
He considered telling the truth: that he couldn't bear to watch a child die.
That he hated the Capitol.
That he was afraid of what would happen if he survived another year and had nothing to look forward to except the mines.
Instead, he smiled.
A small, crooked smile.
"Was bored."
Bellamy stared, Ilya shrugged.
"Thought I try something new."
The crowd was silent.
Then someone laughed.
One sharp, disbelieving laugh.
Ilya looked toward the sound.
Troy.
Of course.
Ilya smiled at him.
Bellamy recovered.
"Well! What an extraordinary young man!"
Ilya looked toward the cameras.
He wondered how many people were watching.
How many children were sitting in their homes, waiting to see who would die this year.
He wondered whether the Capitol would enjoy watching him.
He hoped not.