Chapter Text
The air in District 1 was heavy with the scent of freshly polished marble and the faint tang of ozone. The grand square was transformed into a stage for spectacle, draped in banners of gold and silver, as if the Capitol needed to remind them of their opulence. Children whispered anxiously, their voices drowned by the humming cameras stationed at every angle. For the citizens of District 1, this was a day of pride cloaked in dread.
Mikage Reo stood among the crowd, his posture stiff and unmoving. He wore a suit tailored to perfection, its fabric shimmering faintly under the harsh sunlight. His parents had insisted on it. Of course, they had. Everything about him was just a reflection of the Mikage family: perfect, pristine, and cold.
"Stand tall, Reo," his mother had said that morning as she adjusted his collar. Her hands were steady, her voice sharp. "This is your day."
Reo hadn’t responded. He didn’t need to. His role was clear, the perfect son, the flawless tribute, the weapon his parents had crafted from birth. He stared ahead, the voices around him dissolving into meaningless noise. But beneath his calm exterior, his mind churned with thoughts he could never voice.
He was strong but not bulky, his lean frame the result of years of relentless training. Yet despite his physique, he felt fragile. The weight of expectation pressed against his chest, heavier than any weapon he had ever wielded. Growing up in luxury, he had always gotten what he wanted. Toys, clothes, tutors—everything had been handed to him on a silver platter. Nothing appealed to him anymore. There was no joy in indulgence, only a hollow monotony.
The Hunger Games disgusted him. He had always thought the concept cruel, a sickening spectacle where children were paraded and slaughtered for the Capitol's entertainment. Reo hadn’t been alive during the war; none of them had. Why were they still paying for sins they hadn’t committed? The Capitol’s obsession with control sickened him.
And now, here he was, a pawn in their twisted game. He didn’t want to participate. The thought of stepping into the arena, of being forced to kill, made his stomach churn. But he had no choice. His parents needed him to maintain their reputation. The Mikage name had to shine brighter than ever, and Reo was the vessel for their ambition.
He clenched his fists, the fine fabric of his suit bunching slightly under the strain. His jaw tightened as he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. To the crowd, he was calm and composed, the epitome of District 1’s pride. Inside, he was anything but.
When the escort finally stepped onto the stage, their overly cheerful voice cutting through the tension, Reo barely reacted. He was too busy suppressing the storm raging within him. This wasn’t his moment—it was his sentence.
Across Panem, in the crumbling remnants of District 12, the atmosphere was starkly different. The square was silent, save for the occasional murmur or shuffle of coal-dusted boots. A sea of muted grays and blacks filled the space, the people looking more like shadows than individuals.
Nagi Seishirou stood off to the side, his silver hair catching the dim light. He was tall for his age, with a perpetual slouch that made him seem like he might collapse at any moment. His eyes, lazy and half-lidded, swept across the crowd with detached curiosity. He wasn’t nervous; he wasn’t anything, really.
Next to him, a boy fidgeted nervously. Nagi recognized him in the vaguest sense—the blacksmith’s son. What was his name again? Yomichi? Isami? It didn’t matter. Nagi only knew that the boy’s family was better off than most in District 12. He’d seen him around, clean and relatively well-fed compared to the rest of them. Now, the boy mumbled under his breath, glancing around like he was searching for an escape route.
Nagi didn’t bother engaging. The hunger gnawing at his stomach had dulled to a familiar ache days ago. He hadn’t eaten in a while—maybe three, four days? It was hard to keep track. Food wasn’t a guarantee for someone like him, and work in the mines wasn’t exactly lucrative when you were constantly scolded for slacking off.
“Lazy brat,” his supervisor had called him just yesterday. Nagi had shrugged it off. He didn’t see the point in exhausting himself when the effort hardly changed anything. Whether it was in the mines or out here in the square, life in District 12 was the same—gray, bleak, and endless.
The mayor’s voice droned on in the background, something about the dark days, the creation of the Hunger Games, and the honor of participating. Nagi didn’t listen. None of it mattered. The Games were just another way to die. Whether it was starvation, the mines, or the arena, the end result would be the same. If he got reaped, so be it. He didn’t have any reason to care, no reason to fight, no reason to live.
The warm breeze teased the edges of his silver hair, momentarily drawing his attention. He glanced up at the sky, a patchy blue dotted with clouds. It seemed so far away, unreachable, just like everything else.
“Now,” the escort announced, their Capitol accent cutting sharply through the air, “it’s time to select our tributes for this year’s Hunger Games: the Fifth Quarter Quell.”
Nagi’s gaze shifted lazily back to the stage, his hands tucked into his pockets. The crowd seemed to hold its breath, but he felt nothing. This was just another day, another inevitability. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t hopeful. He was just… there.
In District 1, the crowd grew silent as the escort, a woman draped in a shimmering gown that looked like liquid gold, approached the glass bowl. She dipped her hand inside, her long, glittering nails clinking softly against the paper slips.
She smiled, her voice saccharine as she began, “The first tribute is—”
“I volunteer as tribute.”
The words cut through the air before she could even finish. All eyes turned to Mikage Reo, his hand raised high, his face a mask of calm determination. There was no gasp of surprise, no murmur of protest. Everyone had known this moment was inevitable. Reo was the highest-ranked boy in the District 1 training facility, the pride of their system.
He stepped forward without hesitation. His steps were measured, purposeful, each one a reminder of the weight he carried. The camera zoomed in on his face, capturing the perfect smile he had rehearsed a thousand times. Inside, he felt nothing. Just the familiar, cold emptiness that had been his constant companion for years.
The escort, unfazed, turned back to the bowl to draw the second name. As soon as her hand pulled out the slip, a voice rang out from the crowd.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
Michael Kaiser. He didn’t just walk through the crowd; he prowled, his movements deliberate and filled with a confidence so profound it bordered on arrogance. The blue-tipped ends of his blonde hair swayed with each step, catching the light like a beacon. His smirk, sharp and knowing, spoke volumes: he wasn’t just stepping forward to compete—he was stepping forward to win.
Kaiser ascended the stage with the kind of ease that made it look like he owned it. His sapphire-blue eyes scanned the audience, drinking in their gazes, his posture practically daring them to doubt him. Every step, every motion, radiated an air of superiority, but somehow, that arrogance was magnetic, drawing everyone’s attention.
The two of them had trained together for years at the District 1 training facility, where ambition and privilege bred the Capitol’s best killers. Reo and Kaiser had always dominated the rankings, but in very different ways. Reo’s perfection was clinical and unyielding, while Kaiser’s arrogance fueled his unpredictability and flair. Together, they were a carefully crafted spectacle: the stoic weapon and the arrogant star.
Reo didn’t bother looking at Kaiser. He didn’t need to. He already knew what Kaiser was. A man who loved the spotlight almost as much as he loved winning.
The escort clapped her hands together, her voice dripping with excitement. “Oh, what a brilliant demonstration of District 1’s excellence! Mikage Reo and Michael Kaiser, our magnificent tributes for the Third Quarter Quell. Let’s give them a round of applause!”
The crowd erupted into polite cheers, though most faces remained stoic. Reo’s parents stood in the front row, their expressions unreadable but their pride evident in the slight tilt of their chins. Kaiser’s family, equally influential, stood with smirks as sharp as his own, basking in the glow of their son’s moment.
Reo’s gaze stayed fixed on the Capitol escort, ignoring the chaos around him. Kaiser, however, turned to the crowd, flashing a smug grin, his confidence swallowing the stage whole. If Reo was the perfect tribute, Kaiser was the perfect showman, but with claws and fangs.
In District 12, the square was silent except for the faint rustle of the wind. The escort, a woman named Anri, stood out like a splash of gaudy color against the muted gray of the crowd. Her pink hair was teased into elaborate curls, and her dress was an explosion of ruffles and bows that clashed violently with the stark simplicity of District 12. She smiled, her lips painted a bright fuchsia, and waved to the crowd as though expecting applause. None came.
Nagi Seishirou leaned lazily against a post at the edge of the square. He barely noticed her, just another Capitol puppet in ridiculous clothes. Her voice grated on him, high-pitched and theatrical as she recited the history of the Hunger Games and the rules of the reaping. Nagi didn’t care. He wasn’t really listening.
When she finally reached into the bowl and pulled out the first name, the tension in the square thickened.
“Yoichi Isagi.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the crowd. Nagi shifted his gaze to the boy beside him, who went pale as ash. Isagi’s lips parted, trembling slightly, and then he took a shaky step forward. He stumbled but caught himself, his head jerking up to look around as though someone might come to stop this.
“No,” a woman’s voice broke through the silence. Isagi’s mother. She pushed through the crowd, her face streaked with tears. “No, not my son. Please!”
Two Peacekeepers moved quickly to block her path, their batons held low but threatening. Isagi’s father gripped her shoulders, pulling her back. She sobbed openly, her cries echoing in the stillness.
Isagi stood frozen, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “It’s okay,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s okay.”
Nagi watched the scene unfold with detached curiosity. He barely knew Isagi, just the blacksmith’s son, someone he’d seen around but never really spoken to. It was strange, the way people cared so much. Nagi couldn’t imagine anyone crying for him. Not that he wanted them to. It seemed like too much effort for something pointless.
Anri’s cheerful voice broke through the commotion. “And now, for our second tribute!” She reached into the bowl again, her ridiculous nails clicking against the glass. She pulled out the slip and unfolded it with dramatic flair. “Nagi Seishirou.”
Nagi straightened slightly. He blinked, then sighed, his shoulders slumping further. “What a pain” he muttered to himself.
The crowd shifted uncomfortably. A few people sent him sympathetic glances, but most quickly looked away, as if acknowledging him might curse their own luck. Nagi didn’t mind. He stepped forward, his movements unhurried and indifferent, as though he were heading to the mines for another day of half-hearted work.
Anri beamed at him as he climbed onto the stage. “Our brave tributes, Yoichi Isagi and Nagi Seishirou!” she exclaimed, gesturing dramatically to the boys.
Isagi stood rigid, his face a mask of barely concealed fear. Nagi stood beside him, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He glanced at Anri, her too-bright smile and garish outfit, and felt a flicker of annoyance. She looked ridiculous, like a doll someone had over decorated and placed in the middle of a coal pile.
As the tributes from each district were gathered onto their respective stages, the Capitol’s anthem blared through speakers, a cacophony of triumph and control. The notes swelled and boomed, reverberating across Panem, a constant reminder of their condemnation masked as celebration.
In District 1, Reo and Michael Kaiser stood side by side, their contrasts striking. Reo was the picture of composure: sharp suit pressed to perfection, golden cufflinks gleaming, and a posture that seemed to defy the weight of the moment. His calm demeanor radiated confidence, like a sculpture coming to life, calculated, flawless, and untouchable.
Beside him, Michael Kaiser commanded attention in his own way. Dressed in a suit tailored just as finely but with bold details—electric blue accents and a silk handkerchief tucked jauntily into his pocket—Kaiser’s presence was impossible to ignore. His long blond hair, tipped with streaks of blue, swayed in the light breeze, a deliberate choice to stand out. He exuded a smug charm, his smirk a permanent fixture, as if he already knew he was the Capitol’s favorite before the Games had even begun.
The two tributes made a striking pair, opposites in every way. Where Reo’s strength was in his precision and quiet intensity, Kaiser radiated charisma and flair, his arrogance a magnet for both admiration and irritation.
Reo barely noticed the anthem or the cheers. His mind was already calculating: the alliances he’d need to form, the threats he’d face, and the weapons he’d rely on. Years of archery lessons, combat drills, and psychological conditioning had honed him into a perfect tribute. But beneath the mask of composure, he felt the familiar pang of resentment.
His parents’ faces shone in the crowd, their pride practically beaming through the sea of polished faces. To them, this was a victory—a culmination of years of careful planning, another stepping stone in the Mikage family’s relentless pursuit of power and prestige. Reo looked away. He didn’t want to meet their eyes. Not now, not ever.
Kaiser, on the other hand, thrived in the attention. His gaze scanned the crowd, soaking in their admiration like a sunbather absorbing rays. When his eyes met the Capitol’s cameras, he gave a slight tilt of his head, his smirk deepening. The crowd erupted in applause, enchanted by his arrogance masquerading as charm.
“Smile a little, Mikage,” Kaiser said under his breath, his tone teasing but sharp. “The Capitol loves a good show. You wouldn’t want them thinking you’re boring, would you?”
Reo turned his head just enough to meet Kaiser’s gaze, his expression carefully neutral. Indulge him, Reo thought, the mantra echoing in his mind. Play along, just enough to keep him close and off guard. This is survival, not friendship.
“You seem to have the theatrics covered,” Reo replied, his voice smooth and measured.
Kaiser chuckled, the sound rich and self-assured. “Of course I do. But you’ve got your role to play, too. Capitol loves a dynamic duo. They eat that up.”
Reo’s lips quirked in the faintest smile, a rehearsed expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”
Meanwhile, in District 12, Nagi and Isagi were far less composed. Isagi’s knuckles were white as he clenched his fists, his jaw set in grim determination. Nagi, on the other hand, swayed slightly where he stood, as though the effort of remaining upright was almost too much.
The escort prattled on about honor and sacrifice, but Nagi’s thoughts drifted. He was already tired, and the Games hadn’t even started. His mind wandered to mundane things—what the food on the train would taste like, whether he could sneak a nap during the journey. He didn’t think about winning or losing. He didn’t think about the Capitol.
What’s the point? he thought absently, his gaze flicking to the edge of the crowd where a group of children watched with wide, frightened eyes. He felt a flicker of something—a pang of guilt, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
When the ceremony ended, the tributes were whisked away, their fates sealed. The Capitol’s reach extended beyond the borders of their districts, pulling them into a world where survival meant sacrifice, and victory came at an unthinkable cost.
Back in District 1, Reo sat stiffly in a plush chair, the opulence of the farewell room doing little to ease his discomfort. The walls were lined with ornate gold detailing, and a chandelier hung above him, its crystals shimmering like the Capitol’s mocking promise of wealth and glory. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, an overbearing reminder of the Capitol’s decadence.
His parents entered, their movements precise and deliberate, like actors stepping onto a stage. Their faces were masks of pride and determination, not a hint of fear or doubt to be seen. His father, a tall man with a severe expression and perfectly combed silver hair, strode forward first.
“You know what to do,” his father said, his voice clipped and businesslike, the tone he always used when issuing orders. “You’ve trained for this. Failure is not an option.”
Reo nodded mechanically, his response ingrained from years of similar exchanges. He knew better than to argue. Arguing never changed anything, it only prolonged the inevitable lecture about expectations and duty.
His mother, draped in an elegant dress that matched the District’s opulence, stepped closer. Her hand found his shoulder, her grip firm but not comforting. She didn’t lean down or soften her voice; that wasn’t her way. “Make us proud,” she said, her tone both an encouragement and a warning.
Neither of them lingered. They turned almost in unison and left the room, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
The silence that followed was deafening. Reo exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging for just a moment. He allowed the mask to slip, and in the solitude of the farewell room, the weariness in his eyes was undeniable.
He reached for the edges of the chair, gripping the armrests tightly as if grounding himself. His gaze fell to the floor, where a reflection of the chandelier wavered on the polished tiles. The light looked distorted, as fractured as he felt inside.
But the moment passed. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and drew a deep breath. The facade of composure, polished to perfection through years of practice, slid back into place.
Reo rose to his feet, brushing an invisible wrinkle from his suit. He turned toward the door, his steps measured and deliberate as he prepared to face the Capitol’s spectacle.
In District 12, the atmosphere was far less rigid. Isagi’s family crowded around him, their faces pale and tear-streaked. Nagi, on the other hand, sat alone. Nagi’s gaze drifted over the crowd, stopping briefly on a small figure near the back. It was a child he vaguely recognized from the mines, her wide eyes fixed on him. She stepped forward hesitantly and held out something shiny. A locket. It looked heavy, the intricate design of a strange bird etched into its surface.
Nagi took it without a word, slipping it into his pocket. The child’s small hand lingered for a moment before she stepped back into the crowd and went off to her parents. He didn’t know why she'd given it to him, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be coming back to return it anyway.
When the guards came to take them to the train, Nagi followed without resistance. Isagi lingered, his mother clinging to him until the Peacekeepers pulled her away.
As the train pulled out of the station, District 12 faded into the distance, replaced by the endless horizon. Nagi leaned against the window, his gaze unfocused.
The Hunger Games were waiting. But for now, all he wanted was sleep.