Chapter Text
From the Treaty of Treason:
In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up two Tributes between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping.”
These Tributes shall be delivered to the custody of The Capitol. And then transferred to a public arena where they will Fight to the Death until a lone victor remains.
Henceforth and forevermore, this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games.
ACT I: EVER IN YOUR FAVOUR
NICO
Looking back on it, it probably isn't that shocking. It really shouldn't have caught him by surprise. It's not like his year had been going any better before this, so why not?
Why not add yet another thing to the list?
The sound of gravel under his feet is so incredibly loud as Nico takes his first step towards the raised platform, breaking the shocked, embarrassed silence that had fallen moments prior — “Niccolò Di Angelo!”
There's a halfhearted applause when he climbs the stairs and comes to stand beside his fellow tribute. Nico stares at the crowd and they stare right back, unsure.
His father is nowhere to be seen.
The truth is that, by the time Nico wakes that morning, Capitol and its games are already too late: his world has already ended.
The stiffness of the people he encounters, the fear in the air and the façade of excitement don't faze him as he takes his place in the crowd.
Nico's world ended exactly a week before, when a group of idiots decided it would be a great idea to have fun with the pretty girl they'd seen nearby. Just so fucking amusing, to try and follow her around to see what she'd do.
It ended when Bianca lost her temper and dislocated the ringleader's shoulder with one quick movement. And paid for her actions.
Harshly.
Because district One may have plenty of fame, amongst citizens of the Capitol, plenty of love, for the people that give them the means to be as ostentatious and as utterly ridiculous as possible. But it's still a district, at the end of the day, and it follows the same rules. Violence, of any kind, for any reason, is not tolerated.
All of father's pleads and money and power – for nothing.
The trial had been swift and cruel and Bianca had stood with her head held high even as they carted her away. She'd only broken once they'd almost reached the train – fought and fought well and Nico had remembered only too late that his sister would rather die than let them win.
And so she had.
There are not enough words to express how it feels, to be shut in a room even more opulent than father's money could manage and knowing that a death sentence brought you here.
Nico stares at the door for what feels like hours. No one steps through.
He doesn't know what he hoped or why he dared to at all but for a moment he almost convinces himself that Hades is out there, trying to save him from the inevitable. He can almost hear his father's shouts.
Trying to save him from what wouldn't be inevitable, if only he'd deigned to train his son the way he'd done with his daughter.
Not that Bianca let that stand, of course.
He thumbs the faded scar near his left wrist, the jagged line of it, and remembers her grim expression as she taught him how to hold knives and swords and shoot arrows to the best of her abilities – scared out of her mind, probably. He doesn't know. Bianca made sure to never show it, not to him.
She's always standing before him, in his earliest memories. Strong and steadfast and never unsure of anything.
Until the very end, when she pressed that stupid skull ring in his hand and told him to stand up straight. Nico hasn't taken it off since and he finds himself absently spinning it around his finger now, just to see if some of her courage will seep into him.
Who knows how many fears she swallowed down to help him face his own.
In a better world, she'd be here to reassure him or say goodbye or shout her own name over his, even.
She's not, though. Nico is here, stuck, and she went, stubbornly, where he could not follow.
Where he thought he couldn't follow. What do you know, it seems he'll get there soon enough.
He wonders if she'd be scared, now.
PERCY
He doesn't really think about doing it – doesn't even have the time to – before he's moving.
“Estelle Blofis!” echoes through the courtyard and Percy moves, shoves and pushes his way through and grabs his little sister's arm before she has the chance to take a single step forward.
Already, he can hear his mother's cries.
“I volunteer.” He shouts, not a single goddamn thought in his head other than Estelle, Estelle that still cries about monsters under the bed every other night.
It cannot be her.
Anyone but her.
“I'm Perseus Jackson,” he says into the silence, pushing his sister to the side and back into the line, “I volunteer as tribute.”
The man who extracted his sister's name nods, quickly, and he can almost see pity in his eyes – then again, he's from Capitol and Percy has never seen one of them show sadness over the games before so what does he know. The ridiculous golden horns peeking through his green-brown curls are enough of a reminder: the man does not feel pity because he's not capable of it. Percy bristles.
There is no applause, no matter how fake, when he steps onto the platform. The people of twelve lower their heads, as if already witnessing his funeral.
He thinks of Estelle's braids, the colourful ribbons mom ties them with, the way Paul will spin her around in an embrace whenever he comes home – Percy thinks of his family and pushes down the terror rising in his throat.
Pushes down the tragedy.
He doesn't look for his mother in the crowd, doesn't think he'd be able to keep himself from running into her arms if he so much as caught a glimpse of her.
Nancy Bobofit is called next.
Percy remembers the way she used to push him around, back when they were children and tries to catch her attention – she looks back, hands trembling, and that angry fire that used to burn in her eyes seems to have fizzled out under the fear. It feels like another loss.
He averts his eyes, stricken.
Percy considers turning away, when the door opens quietly – a moment's thought and no more, because Estelle is already throwing herself into his arms, sobbing.
Mom leans against the doorframe, bringing a shaking hand to her lips, and Paul looks just as devastated even as he shoulders her weight himself.
Percy has always been grateful for the man's presence, ever since he first came along when Percy was six, with his gentle eyes and patient smiles. Today he is even more so.
Paul will be there for his mother.
Whatever may happen.
Panic threatens to choke him and he breathes im deeply, leaning down to wrap his arms around Estelle.
“Hi, bug.” He tries his best to smile. Estelle shakes, visibly making an effort to speak through the tears.
“I'm coming too.” She proclaims, holding on tighter.
Mom sobs.
Percy has to close his eyes and steel himself before responding to that.
God, don't let me break in front of her.
“Who'd look after mom, then? You need to stay here until I'm back, you know your dad is useless at haggling prices.”
That gets a wet laugh out of them, if nothing else – because it's true. Paul never quite got the hang of it, hating the conflict. That's how he'd met Sally in the first place. They were all still surprised that he'd made it in Twelve without that particular skill.
“Don't let them rob us all, hm? Take good care of them.” He says, quietly, tilting her head up to look into her brown eyes.
Trying to memorize the way her hair curls, the exact shape of her nose and the smattering of freckles on it.
Just in case, he thinks. Just in case this is the last time I see you.
He doesn't want to die having forgotten a single detail, wants to keep her close in his memories and be able to say I remember everything of my sister, of course I do.
“I promise.”
Estelle is ushered outside, a determined glimmer in her teary eyes, and the moment the door closed behind her, Percy falls into his mother's arms.
“I'm sorry,” Sally says, nonsensically, weeping into his hair and holding him close, trying fruitlessly to gather him into her lap like she used to, "I'm so sorry, my baby."
He doesn't know what she's apologising for – the entire world, maybe. Having given birth to him in it. Every child that is born in a district has already one foot in the arena.
“Mom,” he croaks, “Mom, I don't wanna go.”
“Oh, Percy.”
He doesn't know how long they stay like that, Paul a comforting presence at their side, but it's too long and not enough all at once.
The knock comes, eventually, like they knew it would – Paul hugs them tight and Percy, selfishly, doesn't want them to ever let go.
“Come home,” his mother says at last, tugging him down to look her in the eyes, “Come home to us.”
“I love you.” He answers and she kisses his forehead like she used to when he had nightmares as a child.
He wishes this was a nightmare, still. Far away and beyond his comprehension, disappearing at the mere sight of his mother.
He feels so very small.
“And we love you. No matter what.”
No matter what you do, Percy hears.
He's grateful anyway.
No one has ever come home clean from the arena, after all.
Paul opens the door, lets the awful reality back into the bubble they'd created – and then Percy is alone, again, while his entire world shatters around him.
GROVER
He tried pretending not to hear – tried pretending not to be here, more accurately. Through every district, every shouted name, every mourning family.
This is my job, like a mantra, this is my job and I can't afford to break down over it.
It never works.
The last escort had never said anything about it, this need to step in and interrupt, to throw that stupid bowl to the ground and watch it shatter. Every time a name was picked, even outside of his assigned district, nausea would swirl in his stomach – what was Grover thinking, coming here? Accepting to do this?
He thinks of the gossip he'd heard from the others, how no one had visited the district one tribute, and almost chokes on the sadness and misery and pity that the thought brings.
How alone must that boy feel? Grover hasn't had the chance to get even a glimpse of him aside from the empty eyed pictures that had shown up on every screen, what with the way Minos hoards his tributes like gold.
Still, he knows the old man isn't happy with his younger chosen, has heard the whispers that already call him a lost cause.
He can't imagine what they'll say about the district twelve boy – brave, for sure, but his heart clenches with grief at the sounds he can just barely hear from his place in the hallway.
Percy Jackson has taken his sister's place and he'll pay the price for it.
President Kronos has never liked volunteers.
Too heroic, everyone knows but doesn't say, too big of a threat.
But that doesn't bear even thinking about.
Maybe Grover will check up on that district one boy, if he finds the time, just to reassure himself. What kind of mentor would leave one of his own behind, after all?
Another sob reaches his ears.
What kind of man would make a living on death?