Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ray? Ray, are you awake? I’m scared.”

Instinctively, Ray reaches out, fingertips bridging the gap between his bed and his brother’s. They meet only cool air and empty space. He stretched further, and in doing so fully rouses his tired brain. He opens his eyes.

There is no other bed in his room. Hasn’t been for half a decade. Only a cold, grey wall and, up above, a tiny window filtering in morning light.

You’re an only child, Ray reminds himself. And this is the only day of the year that that’s a good thing.

He gets himself up and creeps out into a dark hallway. The door to his mother’s bedroom is ajar and he peers inside. She’s sleeping, or at least pretending to. Today will probably be just as hard for her as it will be for Ray. Harder, maybe, as Ray is now eighteen. For him, this is his final reaping, one last obstacle standing between him and the mediocre life he’s destined for. For his mother, it’s a bitter reminder of her worst days.

Ray continues on into the kitchen, the only communal space in the apartment, where he had left his uniform airing the night before. He pulls the navy blue overalls on on top of his underwear and sleep shirt. Later he’ll have time to dress for the day. For now he wants to fly under the radar.

The stairwell, usually a cacophony of worker’s boots this time of the morning, is deathly silent. Ray clatters down four sets of stairs and out into the warm morning air without encountering a soul. Most mornings, if he’s heading to school and not to the factory, he’d be a khaki dot in a sea of navy, until he broke off to head into the town’s centre. Today he walks the majority of the workers’ route, diverting at the main factory. He weaves through silos, smaller factory buildings, and rusting, discarded machinery until he arrives at a squat, one-story hangar. 

Technically it’s abandoned. The only reason it sits inside the fence as opposed to outside - and strictly out of bounds - is because it would have been too great an effort to move the fence. This is fortunate for the residents of District 8, who had taken over the place when the Soldiers had moved out and nicknamed it The Button Hole. It’s now a buzzing local hub for under the table trades and unofficial deals.

While all activity that goes on in The Button Hole can, and legally should, be punishable by death the soldiers are far too loyal customers to get the place shut down. District 8 is a sparse, brutal factory town and being stationed here is akin to a prison sentence. It’s in their best interest to allow a little entertainment to survive.

Ray’s mother has no idea he frequents The Button Hole. Not just frequents, but trades there even. It had been a haunt of his father’s, as many Button Hole patrons informed him, and surely his mother would have a conniption if she learned he’s now following in his footsteps.

It’s not like Ray can explain away his illegal activities here either. The vast majority of traders are simply selling everyday items without a license. Handmade clothes, dyed fabrics, baked goods, tools and trinkets. Ray trades things from outside the fence.

Not ostentatious things. He can’t hunt and his plant identification skills aren’t strong enough to prevent him from picking a poisonous mushroom. But he can pick fruit and berries and, after a particularly fruitful summer of trading when he was fourteen that earned him an axe, chop down trees for firewood.

It was never his intention to become a black market trader. In fact, crossing the fence had not originally been a rebellious act. He just wanted to survive.

But that feels like an age ago now. Like it or not, Ray knows he’s just one loose-lipped enemy away from a public execution.

Or, depending on how today goes, no enemy may work just as well.

Pushing through a loose sheet of rusted metal, Ray peers into the dimly lit hanger. It’s quieter today than usual, so he easily spots who he’s looking for. The only person in the District he really considers a friend: Jan.

A smile works its way onto his face as he walks over to her. Ray smiles a lot, he finds it makes navigating life much easier, but Jan says he smiles differently with her than he does with everyone else.

He taps her on the shoulder, but she doesn’t seem surprised. His heavy tread likely gave him away.

“Hey Ray.” She smiles, too, which is unusual for Jan and especially unusual on reaping day. “Look when I’ve got.” She holds up a small loaf of bread. Ray takes it from her, examining the delicate pattern carved into the top.

“This is real bakery bread,” he says, slightly in awe. Living with a single mother, Ray’s family is worse off than most. But even with both her parents alive and working Jan’s family are usually priced out of bakery bread. “It’s still warm.”

“Paid for it with real money. Got a good deal, though. Think everyone’s feeling sentimental today.”

Ray doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because it would be wasted on Jan, who shares his sentiments.

She takes a small container of berries from her pocket, berries Ray picked that she must have held back when trading. Ray learned early days that if his jaunts in the woods are to be any degree of successful he can’t do his own trading. He can talk, when he wants to, but he’s easily flustered and has a tendency to get tongue tied. This was only worse when he was younger. Thankfully, Jan was more than eager to step in.

Once he’d shown her his way past the fence she took to the woods like a duck to water. She’s out there far more often than he is, sometimes even skipping school. But if she wants the big ticket item - firewood - she needs Ray. This works out well for Ray, whose worries are soothed by the fact that he can still pull his weight in their partnership. 

Taking a pocket knife from her coat, Jan begins sawing the bread in half, her long hair falling to obscure her face. She could be his sister. At least, some people who don’t know them well think she’s his sister. She’s almost as tall as he is and they have the same straight nose and round face. With her strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, and muscular build, however, Ray has always thought she looks more like his brother. Looked.

Jan passes him his half of the bread. “Happy Hunger Games,” she says with dull affect.

“May the odds be ever in your favour,” he returns, with an equally rigid military tone.

Ray hops up onto the unoccupied stall table beside Jan and for a moment they eat in silence.

“We could do it, you know,” Jan says quietly.

Ray knows exactly when she means. “Leave the District? Live in the woods?” While he tries to avoid it a hint of sarcasm still manages to creep into his tone.

“Yeah. If we didn’t have so many kids.”

This had always been the stopping point, since day one. For Ray, at least. They’d been twelve when they first started sneaking out of the fence together. It had only taken a week for Jan to propose they just… never go back. But, at the time, Ray had had a ten year old brother to look out for, and he was unwilling to drag him into the unknown. Plus, Jan had two younger sisters of her own. Has. 

“I never want kids,” Ray says.

“I might,” Jan shrugs. “If I didn’t live here.”

But you do live here, Ray wants to bite back. And you always will. But he holds his tongue. It isn’t Jan’s fault he’s weird about relationships. It isn’t Jan’s fault he’s weird about kids.

The people who don’t assume they’re siblings assume they’re dating. Jan’s beautiful, and Ray would be lying if he said he hadn’t harboured some feelings for her when they were kids, but it wasn’t love, or at least isn’t now. To hear them tell it, Jan could have her pick of the boys at school. To hear her tell it, he could have his pick of the girls. He just isn’t interested.

They haven’t brought anything to trade - it wasn’t worth a trip to the woods with this heavy a military presence in the District - so they wander around The Button Hole and leave empty handed. Jan lives in the same area as Ray, a cluster of cement apartment blocks twenty minutes walk from the edge of the District, but she diverts them towards the town centre on their way home.

Halftracks crawl through the streets, dropping soldiers like litter. The townhall and all surrounding buildings drip with propaganda posters. Huge screens have been set up along side streets, to make sure everyone can catch a glimpse of the reaping. 

Jan walks them around the back of the town hall, to the mayor’s house. “One final trade,” she says, flashing a burlap sack of berries in her pocket. Worry gnaws at the pit of Ray’s stomach, they can’t be more than ten metres from the nearest soldier, but they’re all preoccupied with their preparation tasks.

The mayor’s son, Jimmy, opens the door wearing a fine suit. As soon as he lays eyes on them he ducks wordlessly back into the house and reappears with a coin. He hands it to Jan, who in turn hands him the burlap.

“Nice suit,” Ray says. He means it genuinely, but it comes out a little bitter. Everything he’s said to Jimmy since their fight has come out a little bitter.

“Well, if I end up going to the Capitol I want to look nice, don’t I?” He shoots back.

“You won’t be going to the Capitol,” Jan interjects. “You’ve got, what? Seven entries, and it’s your final year. I had ten when I was thirteen.”

“That’s not his fault,” Ray says. “Just the way it is.”

Jimmy’s face has become closed off. He murmurs a, “Good luck,” to them both and starts to shut the door.

“You too,” Ray manages to get in before it closes.

Before Jan, before the woods, before their shitty apartment Ray shares with just his mother, he and Jimmy had been friends. Really good friends. But, at nine, Ray hadn’t been ready to have such a good friend, so he’d decided the only thing he could do about it was punch Jimmy in the face. Which, of course, led to a full blown fight.

Ray feels bad about it, especially bad since they never regained any semblance of closeness, but he doesn’t know what he can do about it now. An apology would be a decade too late.

He doesn’t talk with Jan on the walk home. Part of him feels she’d take a dig at him, too, if given the chance. His name will be in the reaping bowl twenty three times today. Hers will be in forty two. 

Technically, the rules are the same for everyone across the country. At twelve, your name is entered into the reaping once. At thirteen, twice. And so on until you have seven entries at the age of eighteen.

But that would be far too fair. If you’re poor, as most people in the Districts are, you can enter your name an additional time in exchange for tesserae: a (so called) year’s supply of grain and oil. You can do this for every member of your family. So, from ages twelve to thirteen Ray had his name entered four times. From fourteen until now, thrice. Jan, for both her parents, her two sisters, and herself had her name entered six times each year.

So it’s easy to see why a boy from a stable, well to do family like Jimmy’s gets her riled up.

Still though, there’s another layer to it. Jan is certain Ray won’t be picked.

“It’s just too unlikely,” she would always say. “Too much bad luck.”

“And you don’t think my family’s a magnet for that?” He’d respond.

“Exactly. You’ve already had more than your fair share of the stuff. You’d have to be so crazy unlucky for them to call your name that it’s statistically impossible. It won’t happen.”

She was trying to comfort him, but it doesn’t help. Ray knows he can be that unlucky.

They part ways and Ray returns to his apartment. His mother has laid out one of his father’s old shirts for him. Too big for him still, but maybe this is the closest it will ever come to fitting.

He takes a cold shower, the only type of shower he’s been able to take for the past eleven years, then takes his time combing his hair. He’s not trying to avoid seeing his mother, he tells himself, but that will only make today harder. If his luck is horrible then hers can only be worse.

Eventually he emerges into the kitchen, tucking the excess fabric of his shirt into his trousers. His mother almost cries just looking at him.

“You look just like–” She starts.

“Don’t,” he says. “That’s not a compliment.”

His mother is dressed smartly too. Not that she’ll be on display, but it’s almost an unspoken rule of reaping day. Everyone is expected to look their best.

At eight thirty they head back to the town square. They walk together, but don’t talk. Every so often Ray’s mother dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. 

Already the square has begun to fill up. Camera crews have joined the soldiers, perching on top of tanks and on rooftops. Ray hugs his mother once, tightly, then splits off to sign up. His mother will go to sign in elsewhere, mandatory to keep tabs on the population but not a part of the reaping ritual.

Ray gives his full name and address to a soldier, then he’s shuffled into a tent for a brief physical. They take his height and weight - thinks the Capitol citizens will want to know if he’s reaped - and record his finger prints and blood type. As if a transfusion would ever be on the table.

A couple of kids he knows from school are in the tent with him. They nod politely to each other, but don’t talk. Ray has been withdrawn from his peers for the better part of a decade, now isn’t the time to start making friends.

Once they’re finished with their physical, everyone files out into the square. They’re directed into areas that are cordoned by age - eighteen at the front, twelve at the back. Ray finds himself less than a metre from the stage they’ve set up. Less than a metre from the reaping bowl.

Around the outskirts of the square are loved ones of those in the reaping, strategically placed so that the cameras can capture their reactions should one of their children get reaped. He can’t spot his mother, though.

Further back are those who have no ties to anyone in the reaping. People who will likely slink through the crowds taking and placing bets. The reaping is great for the economy, they always say. Billions are bet. But billion as a number doesn’t really mean anything to Ray.

The space becomes more claustrophobic as it draws closer to nine. Ray catches sight of Jimmy, who gives him a polite nod, and Jan, who offers an encouraging smile. She’s still thinking his name won’t be drawn.

On the stage is the reaping ball, of course, containing names of every child he was currently penned in with. A microphone. Three chairs, two of them currently filled by the mayor - Jimmy’s mom - and a faceless, nameless soldier who would be conducting events. The third remains empty. Good.

At nine sharp the mayor rises and begins to recite the ceremonial spiel. It’s the same, word for word, each year. It tells the history of North America, one of the only survivors of The World War (once known as World War Two, but after over a century of fighting that name no longer seemed apt). She references a few particularly bloody battles, losses of land, and military restrictions placed on the country to keep us strong. The only reason we survived, they claim, was due to strict militarisation. The result? Remaining land divided into Districts and remaining populations rounded up into them. You can’t leave, unless it’s to serve in the military. You can’t do anything but be a productive member of society. Otherwise, you can wave goodbye to society altogether. The centre of this “new country” is the Capitol, the ultimate military state in which high ranking military officials get to live in semi-normalcy. They make the laws, dispense the armies, and, apparently, defend the country from any further foreign conflict. 

But there has to be a price to pay. In order to prevent complacency, and to remind the population that the war only dragged on so long due to disengagement of the general population, the lack of desire to serve one's country, they now hold The Hunger Games. Each year, each district must offer up two children to participate. These twenty four tributes are rounded up, taken to the Capitol, and forced to fight to the death in an outdoor arena. This is the military’s way of reminding people they’re totally at their mercy. How little chance they’d have at survival without the Capitol preventing another war.

To add insult to injury, the Capitol treats The Hunger Games as some big holiday. The usually stoic, militaristic state rolls out the red carpets for the poor, usually starving District children and treats them like celebrities until their untimely deaths. Because it’s honourable to die for your country.

The last tribute alive receives a life of luxury back in their District. A house in the Victor’s Village and enough money to last several lifetimes. Plus, for a year their District will be showered with gifts of food. Ray remembers thinking, once he was old enough to know exactly what winning the Games meant, that it wasn’t worth it, but he’d kept that thought to himself. Now, living in his apartment and barely scraping by on one and half incomes, he understands a little better.

To wrap everything up, the mayor reads a list of the District’s previous winners. District 8 has four, but only one is still alive. And he still hasn’t shown his face at the reaping.

Ray prepares himself, knowing a camera will surely find its way to his face as they read out the name of District 8’s latest winner. The only current occupant of the Victor’s Village. A stocky, middle-aged alcoholic Ray can’t help but hate.

William Garraty.

Chapter Text

Ray’s father had had his name drawn when he was eighteen years old. His mother had been pregnant at the time. He was above average height and strong for his age, but not exactly a shoe-in for the crown. In fact, his mother had been certain he wasn’t coming home.

But he did. Ray’s parents had never discussed how in front of their children; Ray isn’t even sure he wants to know. They’d moved into the Victor’s Village and had their first son: Raymond. Two years later they’d had his brother. In hindsight, the first eleven years of Ray’s life had been idyllic.

Until one day his father wasn’t there anymore. At the time his mother had told him he was just away on Capitol business, like with The Hunger Games; winning tributes become mentors for future tributes from their District. But this was longer than any Games had been in Ray’s living memory.

Eventually, soldiers came and asked them to vacate the house. They’d moved into the squat little apartment Ray still calls home today.

Ray’s father never came back. At least, his mind didn’t. His body had strolled into town one day, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d ever had a family. Completely oblivious to the kind of man he’d used to be. He’d moved back into the Victor’s Village and gotten on with his life as if he’d never been a husband or father. As if he’d never even had a friend.

Ray now knows that this is something called being “squadded”. Not this exactly, it’s different for everyone. But if you speak out against your country, against your military, they take you away and basically make you a walking propaganda machine.

Ray’s father had been conspiring to overthrow the soldiers in the District. Clearly he hadn’t been conspiring well enough.

A year later, Ray's brother had caught pneumonia. Unable to afford the medication to treat him, a year after that he’d died.

Ray tries not to blame his father for this, but it’s hard not to. There’s nothing in the world they could do to me, he thinks, that would make me forget about my children. Nothing.

This is the thought that’s replaying in Ray’s head when he releases they’re calling out a name. His name.

Of course, his name.

Everyone around him reacts before he does. The whispered, “sorry”s, the parting of the crowd, he thinks Jan is shouting his name but he ignores her. It’s been nice, Jan, he thinks, but better than we stop being friends now.

The whole thing feels very surreal. There was no other way this could have happened, now that he thinks about it. It does seem that previous victor’s children get drawn far more frequently than statistics would dictate they should. And who would make a more tragic tribute than the only remaining son of a man who seemingly walked out on his family?

Determined not to give them a show, Ray mounts the stage with a blank face. He refuses the handshake the soldier offers him, earning a soft cheer from the back of the crowd. No one in the penned-in area would dare to cheer now. Not with one name left to be chosen.

The soldier dips his hand back into the bowl and Ray, not usually a religious man, gives a silent prayer that it’s not Jan.

And it’s not Jan. It’s Katrina McVries.

Ray had never known her name, so for a moment he allows himself to think it’s not her. McVries could be a common surname. She could be anyone’s sister.

But no. The second the crowd parts, all the way to the back into the twelve year olds’ section, he knows whose sister she is. And whatever flimsy chance of winning he may have once had dissolves, because how can he do anything but lose to Peter McVries’ little sister?

Eyes wide, terror stricken on her face, Katrina starts her slow march to the stage. She’s dressed in pants and a waistcoat, clearly one of Peter’s old reaping outfits. Her hair is braided with thin strips of pink ribbon, something that ordinarily would be seen as wasteful but for today only is acceptable.

More than his own impending doom, the thought of tiny little Katrina going into the arena makes Ray feel sick.

“Hey. Hey!” There’s a commotion at the front of the crowd and it parts again. Someone stumbles out in front of Katrina. “Katrina!” It’s Peter. Who else? He picks her up and starts carrying her towards the back of the crowd. Not spotting his parents, he stops beside his girlfriend. He hands her a now wailing Katrina - “Petey, no, Petey, what are you doing?”

“I’ll do it,” Peter roars, rounding to face the stage. “I’ll go! Take me!”

A hush spreads out across the crowd. Katrina sobs silently. This is allowed, technically. One person can volunteer to take another’s place, provided they’re the right age. But it’s extremely uncommon. Ray had thought, sometimes, about volunteering for his brother and the conclusion he’d come to was that he would try to do it but in the moment who knew what would happen? Family devotion only went so far in this country.

So when someone does volunteer the protocol is hazy. Even Peter himself is stumbling around for the right words.

“I volunteer,” he says eventually, but it’s less certain than his previous statements. “Is that what I have to say? Just take me.”

For a third time the crowd parts and he makes his way boldly up to the stage. He, too, refuses the soldier’s handshake and while doing so throws Ray a wink. Despite himself, Ray feels his cheeks flushing.

He doesn’t want to look at Peter. Doesn’t even want to think about him. In a way, going into the arena with Peter McVries will be worse than going in with Jan.

“What’s your name, son?” The soldier asks. “Son?”

“Peter McVries.” When he speaks he spits a little on the soldier’s shirt. Just enough that it could be accidental, but Ray knows it isn’t.

“And I’ll bet my boots that was your sister.” There’s a slight drawl so the soldier’s cadence. He didn’t grow up in the Capitol.

Peter doesn’t reply, so he turns back to the crowd. “A salute for our two fine tributes of District 8. Raymond Garraty and Peter McVries.”

To the endless credit of District 8, not a single person moves a muscle.

As the soldier begins to wrap up the ceremony, Ray sneaks a sideways glance at Peter. From this angle he can see the scar on his cheek with perfect clarity. No. Ray cannot win against Peter McVries.

They’re not friends. Not even neighbours. Peter lives on the other side of town, in a somehow even more dilapidated block of apartments. They don’t even say hello if they pass each other in the street. A nod is usually sufficient. Under any other circumstances Ray would say Peter had forgotten. But that scar…

It was almost a year after Ray’s father was squadded and almost a month since his “return”. Ray hadn’t even had time to process the fact he now had a father who didn’t even know him; his brother was deep in the thralls of illness.

They were used to being poor. They hadn’t been allowed to take anything but their old possessions from the Victors Village when they left. Since his mother had still been a school girl when she’d moved into that house she’d had next to nothing to her name. Nothing even to sell to cushion the move a little.

But they got by. Two meals a day, no meat, one outfit for school, one outfit for reaping day, nothing more. Until his brother got sick.

Suddenly every penny to their name was being spent on medicine. Ray didn’t complain. In fact, for several months it was almost as if Ray didn’t exist. He ate at school, mended his own clothes, then wandered around the more well-to-do areas looking for odd jobs. He heard that sometimes kids would beg around The Button Hole, but at twelve he was still scared of the place. Plus, he didn’t like feeling like he owed anyone anything.

After weeks of scraping together enough money for a new round of treatment, Ray took it to the pharmacy in town only to find they’d raised the price. At first he tried to bargain with them - he’d pay the rest later, he’d work for free, he’d pay double next time, just please, please - but it was fruitless. So then he started to shout. Scream. Generally Ray’s known as a mild-mannered kid, but he has a hot temper and a bite he’s inherited from his father.

The pharmacist called the soldiers on him, who dragged twelve year old Ray out onto the street kicking and screaming.

He should have left it alone then. Run home. But he couldn’t. He began laying into the soldiers - his brother was dying because of them, did they feel good? Did they feel honourable? What were they going to do about it, shoot a little boy in the street?

The answer to that was yes, as one soldier pulled a gun and levelled it at Ray. Fine, he remembered thinking, a more noble end than getting squadded. Better to die here than in the Games.

But before the trigger could be pulled a voice intervened. “Hey, hey, we don’t need to shoot a kid over all this.” Ironically, the voice belonged to a kid itself. Twelve year old Peter McVries was scrawny, short for his age, but in that moment to Ray he was a guardian angel. He positioned himself between Ray and the carbine and said, with a cocky grin, “You gonna shoot me, too?”

Once again, the answer was yes.

Ray couldn’t even scream. He covered his face, certain if he looked up he would see Peter’s brains spread across the cobbles and it would be all his fault. But the sound of Peter’s laughter calmed his racing heart.

“Barely grazed me,” Peter chuckled. “Move along, boys.”

Only once he heard the footsteps receding did Ray dare to uncover his eyes. Barely grazed him was an understatement. The soldier had shot a bullet directly down the side of Ray’s face, blood dripped from his upper lip to his cheekbone. He smiled at Ray, and as he did so blood dripped into his mouth.

“Well, I should get this seen to.” Then he turned and walked off. Part of Ray wanted to run after him, ask him why the hell he’d done that, ask him if he was okay, but he was afraid. Instead he’d run home.

He didn’t tell his mother what had happened. He just let her shout at him while he cried quietly, then slunk away to his room. He’d intended to tell his brother everything, but he was asleep. For the best.

The next day at school he saw Peter in the corridor. His face had been roughly sewn up, probably by his mother. It looked sore, but he seemed happy enough. All day Ray thought about approaching him, thanking him, but he was always with his girlfriend and at least two other kids from the other side of town.

At the end of the day he caught Peter staring at him from across the school yard, but by this point he knew he couldn’t say anything. Too much time had passed. He owed too much.

Turning his head away in shame, Ray caught sight of a small, shrubby patch of brambles pushing their way through the chainlink fence. While his father had never risked bringing his children into the woods with him, Ray remembered that he used to bring baskets of brambles home for them.

All he needed was the nerve.

To this day, Ray can’t shake the connection between Peter McVries and his new life of freedom in the world beyond the fence. They haven’t spoken two words to each other since, which is the worst part. Maybe if Ray had worked up the courage to thank him at some point he wouldn’t be feeling so nauseous right now. And there would never be another opportunity to do so, not sincerely. They’re expected to be at each other’s throats just days from now.

The soldier is wrapping up his speech and now Peter seems close to tears. He can’t take his eyes off Katrina. Ray tries to think of something, a way to divert the cameras and give Pete a moment of privacy, but someone else beats him to it.

William Garraty looks like his son. Or rather, Ray looks like his father. He’s a tall, stocky, slightly plump man with light ginger hair and freckles. Right now, a running theme of the past eight years, he’s drunk.

He mounts the stage, thinks about heading to his seat, but heads for Peter instead. He throws a friendly arm around him.

“Look at this kid,” he says. “Pride of the district, this kid. That little girl’s name gets called and he steps up. How many of you out there have watched a little twelve year old go to their death? All of you! That’s the answer. All of you.” At this, he looks directly into a camera. “You need to step up.”

He takes what was meant to be a metaphorical step and topples off the stage. Ray tries not to feel bad for him. At least Peter gets a moment to pull himself together.

Okay, Ray tells himself, there will be twenty four of us. If I’m lucky, someone else will kill him before I have to.

But Ray has never been lucky.

Chapter Text

A bugle sounds and Ray and Peter are taken into custody - marched into the town hall by soldiers. In previous years, Ray has seen tributes take this opportunity to try to escape. He’s never seen them succeed, however.

Inside the town hall, Ray is guided into a room and left alone. It’s not a room he’s been in before, although he used to spend a lot of time in the town hall as a child, between visits with his father and dropping by to spend time with Jimmy.

The carpets are plush and the chair he’s sitting in must be made with fabric from before the war, as they don’t make anything this nice in their factories. He runs his hand gingerly over the surface of the chair, trying to calm himself down. He’s going to die. Not today, not tomorrow, but probably by the end of the week. He’ll be dead.

Ray shakes the thought from his mind. What he needs to focus on now is saying goodbye. The next half hour or so is allotted for tributes to say a private goodbye to their loved ones. The least he can do is leave them with a positive memory of him.

His mother comes first. Between losing her husband and youngest son she’s been pretty emotionally unavailable most of Ray’s teenage years. She loved him at a distance, clearly preparing for this exact scenario. But seeing him now, she bursts into tears.

“It’s not fair,” she says, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“I know,” he says plainly.

“You can win,” is what she says next, but her heart isn’t in it. Win and what? Become a drunk propaganda machine like his father?

“Sure,” Ray placates. “I’ll try to win.”

“We could move back into the Victors Village.”

She means well, but nothing else could have put Ray off winning more.

“Sure,” he says again. And then they just sit there, holding each other. She’ll be alone once he’s gone, Ray realises. She could still meet someone. She’s even young enough to try for another child. But what sane person would try for a third child after seeing the fates of her first two?

Ray makes a silent promise to die a quick and painless death. Then she will have only had to watch one of her sons suffer.

A soldier alerts her that her time is up. She squeezes him one last time and he forces himself to watch her walk away.

Next Ray expects to see Jan, but when the door reopens he receives a surprise. Peter McVries’ mother, eyes clearly still wet from her visit with her son.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says as she sits down beside him. Mind her coming? Ray thinks. Or mind that I’m going to my death?

“My Pete’s so devastated, going into the games with you.”

This pulls Ray up short. Not that Peter’s devastated to be going into the games, but with Ray specifically? She must have misspoke. 

“He likes you a lot,” she continues, which is another shock to Ray. He likes Peter too, he supposes, but he’d never think to say as much to his mother. From the sounds of things, Ray is a regular topic to be discussed at dinner.

“It was very brave of him to volunteer for Katrina like that,” is all Ray can think of to say.

“Brave and stupid. Now that little girl will have to watch her brother–” She breaks off before she starts crying.

“I’ll look out for him in there.” Ray’s surprised to hear himself say it, even if he was thinking it earlier. The most he can promise is that he won’t be the one to kill Peter, but even that is a weighty promise in a game of life and death.

“Thank you.” She touches his cheek gently. “You’re a strong boy, you take care.”

For the remaining time they sit there together, quietly. Then the soldier returns, escorting Mrs McVries out and inviting in another unexpected guest: Jimmy.

“Hey.” Ray finds himself standing, a nervous feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Hey.” Jimmy tosses something to him and he catches it. It’s a baseball, one that used to belong to Ray and before that had belonged to his father. He’d left it at Jimmy’s house an age ago and while, after his father got taken away, he’d wished he had it he hadn’t known how to breach the subject of coming over to get it. “Always figured I could just give it to you, after we made up. But, you know…”

“I’m sorry,” Ray blurts out.

“That’s not what I’m here for.” Jimmy raises his hands in mock defence. “You get a token, something you take into the arena with you. I thought you might want this.”

Having a token is the last thing on Ray’s mind, but sure, why not. He doesn’t have anything else on him he could possibly bring. He has a good arm, maybe he could knock someone over the back of the head with it.

“I am sorry though. For what it’s worth.”

“Look, I shouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t expect to get hit. You shouldn’t have told me you wanted to and then hit me. That was forever ago, we’re good.”

“I thought you were angry?” This doesn’t feel like the right time to be airing this. But if not now, when?

“I was, for about a month. We were nine, it wasn’t that serious.”

“Then why didn’t we talk?”

“I figured you were figuring yourself out. You know. With Jan.”

“Jan and I aren’t– We’ve never–” Never what? There’s so much they’ve never done he doesn’t even know where to begin.

“You don’t need to explain.”

“No, but we really haven’t. I’m just sorry.”

“Look, when you come back, we can be friends again,” Jimmy says.

“When,” Ray scoffs.

“Yeah, when.”

That’s perhaps the most confident anyone has sounded that he can win.

They hug, just the once, and Ray’s surprised to find it doesn’t feel awkward.

Then, finally, Jan is here. She hugs him, and before he can even look her in the eye she’s talking.

“Listen, they’ll have axes, they always do for District 7. You’re so strong, you could do a lot of damage with one of those–”

“I’m not a fast runner, I’d be dead before I got my hands on the hilt–”

“You’re not the fastest runner in school, that doesn’t mean you’re not fast. And no one’s ever beaten you at long distance, you’ve got endurance, who else our age could walk two days straight out in the wilderness?”

A familiar wilderness isn’t a guarantee. In fact, more the opposite. The arena changes each year and the chances of this one reflecting the dense forests and dry fields that make up the land outside the fence are slim to none. 

“We don’t even know if there will be trees.”

“There’re always trees. You can chop yourself firewood or carve yourself a spear–”

“Only if I manage to get an axe–”

“Just let me believe you’ll win, okay?” Jan bursts out. “Please, just– You’re strong and you’re smart and you’re good at surviving. That’s all this is. I just need you to survive.”

“It’s not just surviving,” Ray says. “It’s killing, too.”

Jan’s eyes darken. “Killing is surviving. Under these circumstances."

He doesn’t know what chills him more, the fact that Jan could ever think of him as a killer or the fact that, when it comes down to it, she’s right.

The soldier returns for a final time and Ray and Jan hug once more. She touches his face and for a second he’s afraid she’ll try to kiss him, but the moment passes and he’s being hustled out the door.

It’s a short walk from the town hall to the train station, but they’re still loaded into a car. Easier to control that way, Ray assumes. He’d never been in a car before, but his father used to let him ride shotgun in his truck. It used to be his job to transport materials around the District. Completely voluntary, of course, as after the Games he was set for life.

Now William is in the front seat, swigging from a hip flask and looking miserable. 

Peter doesn't seem to have managed to pull himself together. He’s openly weeping now, not bothering to hide his face from the cameras. No shame in that, of course, but in a fight to the death it pays not to appear vulnerable in any way.

Although, a few years back now, there had been a boy who employed this strategy. Percy, from their district. He was only fourteen, built like a sheet of paper, and presented himself as a quivering coward at the reaping and during interviews. No one had thought twice about hunting him down in the area. But once he’d let the bigger threats eliminate each other he emerged and revealed himself to be a vicious killer.

Still, it wasn’t enough. A District 4 girl disembowelled him and earned herself her life.

This would be a strange strategy for Peter, though. He’s a little shorter than Ray, but not by much, and he’s visibly strong. Then there’s the fact that everyone has seen him volunteer for his sister. Not a declaration that he wants to be here, per say, but certainly he had more choice in the matter than everyone else.

Oh well, Ray thinks. Makes my job that much easier if Peter’s trying to win.

They’re offloaded onto a train - a high-speed train that only serves the purpose of inter-district travel - and before Ray can even find his footing it sets off. He and Peter are shown to their own bed chambers, which is fancier even than Ray’s old room in the Victors Village, and told by a soldier to do what they please until lunch, which will be served in a carriage down the hall.

Ray strips off his father’s shirt, feeling sick now at the thought of wearing it, and takes a hot shower. It would feel luxurious, if he could shake the feeling that he’s a farm animal being prepared to be butchered. 

There’s a wardrobe in his bed chamber, filled with clothing in his size. He wonders if this points to the reaping being rigged, or if this train is full of bed chambers in different styles filled with different clothing and he was purposefully directed to this one. Both seem equally likely to him.

He picks out a plain outfit - dark top, dark trousers  - then fishes the baseball out of the outfit he discarded on the bathroom floor. It really could not be less remarkable. A simple, shop-bought baseball. Probably, if Ray remembers correctly, second hand. But god, what a token. A memento of his childhood to hold as he dies. That’s certainly an image.

A soldier summons him for lunch. They walk back up towards the engine and slip into the dining car, which is set up to look like a fine dining establishment. At least, that’s what Ray thinks from what he’s read about in romance novels. There are three places set, but only Peter sits at the table. He’s inspecting the dishes but, seemingly, waiting for Ray.

He smiles as Ray sits down.

“Are we expecting, um. Your, um…” Peter shrugs uncomfortably. “Your uncle? That sucks, man, getting mentored by your uncle.”

“My dad,” Ray says, suddenly becoming engrossed in his empty plate. “William Garraty’s my dad.”

There’s a long pause, then Peter begins, “Do you mind if I ask, um–”

“Squadded,” Ray says.

“Right.” Another long pause. “I’m sorry.”

It’s fine, Ray thinks. Not like I’ll be around to remember him in a week.

That’s not exactly the kind of sentiment you want to express in front of a fellow tribute, though, so despite the fact that he still feels deeply nauseous Ray sets about serving himself a bowl of soup.

He doesn’t touch it, just stares down into the lumpy mixture in his bowl, but his action seems to have signalled to Peter that it’s okay to start eating, so he does so. Ray continues to stare at his soup. He’s going to die.

He’s going to die.

“Don’t you want to eat this?” 

Ray rouses himself from his stupor as something is thrust in front of his face. It’s a sandwich, thick, white bread filled with what appears to be cuts of beef and some sort of chutney. Peter’s holding it out to him with an enquiring look on his face. 

Ray looks between the sandwich and Peter. Does he expect him to eat it out of his hand?

As uncomfortable seconds crawl past Ray considers doing exactly that, when Peter drops the sandwich down onto his plate. “It’s good, you might like it. Or are you missing your ration paste?”

“No…” Ray’s hyper aware of the fact that he’s being a terrible conversationalist. He probably will be for the rest of his life, now.

“Look–” Peter takes a swig from a glass on the table, then immediately spits it back out. “Ugh. That water’s gone off, it’s fizzy.”

Ray pushes away his own glass of water as a reminder not to drink it.

“Look,” Peter tries again, “I’m not going to tell you what to do. But we’re both heading to our deaths here - well, I am. You’re a big boy, you might do just fine–”

Ray’s face grows very red and he has to turn away from Peter. No one’s ever called him that before. Not as a compliment, anyway.

“But either way, we’re in for a nightmare week. Can’t hurt to find a couple things to enjoy. Before it’s all over.”

Peter doesn’t wait to see if his words have made any impact on Ray, instead choosing to serve himself a bowl of salad.

Ray takes three deep, calming breaths in a row. He must sound insane to Peter, but if he thinks so he doesn’t say anything. You were always going to die, Ray tells himself. Eat a fucking sandwich. 

He does. And it is good. Even when they lived off William Garraty’s winnings food this good wasn’t available to buy in District 8. Ray eats until he once again feels slightly sick, this time for a different reason.

Peter seems to have thought ahead, preventing himself from meeting the same fate, and is now picking out food items and wrapping them in a cloth napkin for later. He gathers the edges of his napkin together and stands up. “I’m gonna go meet our competitors, you coming?”

A shiver of fear shoots down Ray’s spine before he realises he’s only being invited to watch a recap of the reapings. A soldier directs them to a room a carriage down that’s been fitted with a large television. Ray crosses his arms over his stomach and huddles in the corner of the sofa, feeling embarrassed without being sure as to why. Peter sits down right next to him, so close their thighs are touching. He doesn’t seem to notice, so Ray pretends he doesn’t either.

Friendly guy.

One by one, in District order, they watch children get called up for the slaughter. A few stick out to Ray.

A cocky volunteer from District 1 whose face makes Ray feel a little uncomfortable. He’s not unattractive, he’s a perfectly ordinary looking young man, but the way in which he carries himself sets Ray on edge. A stoic boy from District 2, also a volunteer. He has blond hair and an intense expression that puts Ray in mind of someone, but he can’t think who. A surprisingly jovial boy from District 5. He watches himself ascend to the stage, beyond forgettable if not for the mention of his father. Then there’s Peter, full of fire and righteous fury, sweeping his sister up and placing her safely out of harm’s way. That must have garnered him some attention. Plus, he’s physically strong and quick witted. This whole time Ray has been preparing himself not to have to kill Peter. Should he be thinking about how to help him win? No one else thus far has made such a dazzling entrance. There’s a boy from District 10 who mounts the stage on crutches, then a boy from District 12 with long hair and hard eyes. Then, the final tribute drawn and perhaps most haunting of all, a twelve year old boy. Despite looking nothing like him, he reminds Ray of his brother. His stomach lurches and for a moment he’s afraid he’s going to lose his lunch. Someone’s going to kill that little boy. And it might even be him!

“Lot of boys this year,” Peter says after the screen fades to black.

“Yeah.” Usually, statistically, the arena is composed of roughly twelve girls and twelve boys. This year at least three quarters of the tributes are male.

Peter stands up, and before Ray can follow suit the other boy is standing over him, leaning in slightly so they can see eye to eye. For the second time that day, Ray worries he’s about to be kissed. “Look, Ray,” he says. “I like you. But if somebody swings their sword at you I’m not gonna stand in their way.”

He straightens up again, then winks at Ray, throwing his already befuddled head into further confusion.

“Tough competition this year,” Peter throws over his shoulder as he walks away, leaving Ray to stare at his reflection in the blank television screen.

Chapter Text

Ray decides to remain in the television room until Peter is safely tucked away inside his own chambers, but less than a minute later he hears voices out in the corridor. Rising slowly so as not to make any noise, Ray peers through a crack in the carriage door. If he squints, he can just about make out Peter’s back, squared up to William. Not antagonistic per say, but he’s certainly blocking his way. The rushing momentum of the train is too loud for Ray to hear what they’re saying.

For a moment he loiters, hoping they’ll move on. He’d come to terms with the fact that he’s lost his father, but now he’s realising that loss had only been processed at a distance. Forced into the same confined space Ray can’t help but catch glimpses of the man who taught him to throw a baseball. The man who taught him how to knit. The man who used to tell him and his brother bedtime stories.

Minutes drag past and he begins to feel like a creep, so he steps out into the corridor. William doesn’t acknowledge him, but Peter turns around.

“Ray! I’m trying to get him to go back to bed. It’s fine, we’re fine.”

Now William looks past Peter, at Ray. “Ah! The other one!” He exclaims. “Come here, I need to, need to mentor you. It’s an honour, you know, going to the Games.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re honoured, Mr Garraty,” Peter says. “You can tell us about it tomorrow.”

Ray walks slowly down the corridor towards them. He’ll need to pass them if he wants to go back to his room, and where else can he go? The air is thick with the stench of whiskey.

“Mr Garraty…” Something seems to click for William. He stares at Ray. Looks through him, almost. “We related?” He asks in the clearest voice Ray has heard him use for the better part of a decade.

Ray shakes his head. “No. Common surname.”

“There are some guys ‘round The Button Hole who are convinced I have kids. I’m a forgetful guy, but what kind of monster would forget his own kids?”

“Yeah,” Ray says softly. “What kind.”

“I’ll take him to his chambers,” Peter interjects. Ray wants to tell him he can handle it, but frankly he can’t. He nods in assent and slips past them, back to his own bedchamber. In the distance he can hear William protesting as Peter forces him back to his room.

Peter McVries. A man who won’t save his life, but will save his dignity. One costs more than the other, he supposes.

More than anything Ray would like to go back to sleep, but it’s barely mid afternoon and it wouldn’t be wise to mess up his sleep schedule now and risk sleeping in broad daylight in the arena. If the arena will even have daylight.

Instead he slumps into a chair by the window and watches expanses of dry grass and old, long abandoned houses pass by. They enter a loose collection of trees that was probably once a forest and Ray notices a cluster of brambles growing by the train tracks. Once again he’s thinking about that day at school, trying not to catch Peter’s eye and inadvertently glancing at the brambles…

Ray’s father hadn’t told him the first thing about his escapades outside the fence, so Ray didn’t have the best idea of where to start. They were told that the fence was electrified round the clock, but anyone who’d come within ten metres of it knew that wasn’t true. But he’d had no reason to doubt that anyone seen crossing that threshold would be shot on sight.

He waited until dusk - too afraid to go in complete darkness - then made his way to the nearest section of the fence. It was behind a disused outhouse that had once stored spare parts for factory machinery. Utterly unguarded.

Climbing the fence was too much of a risk. It was eight feet tall, and perched atop it Ray would’ve been easily visible to any soldiers in the surrounding area. But the fence was old and more rust than not, so after less than a minute of walking along it, prodding the chainlink every so often, he found a loose section. Since then he’s come back to widen the gap with wire cutters, but at twelve it was barely a squeeze.

Once outside the fence, Ray made a dash for the nearest cover, a small copse of trees. From there he could more easily sprint to an abandoned farmhouse or a larger stretch of forest without being noticed, but that day he was content to stay put. He darted around the copse, collecting blackberries and storing them in his satchel.

After what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than five minutes he returned to the fence, heart pounding, and crept back under.

Now, Ray had seen his father trading at The Button Hole, but he didn’t think he could take any more stress that day. Plus, it was getting dark out. And while he knew the broad strokes of trading he didn’t know what a small satchel of berries was worth. So he just brought them home.

He told his mother he collected them by walking along the inside of the fence. At the time he’d thought his lie was flawless, but in hindsight she’d obviously known. She just hadn’t had the time to care. Especially when he began bringing back fish, firewood, and a whole multitude of things he’d traded for she must have known. By then, though, it was too late to feign worry for her eldest son.

Ray immediately feels bad for thinking of his mother like that. She cares about him, she’s always cared about him. But she never seemed to realise that the hardest time in her life was the hardest in his, too. Except he was just a child.

Slowly, over the next couple of months, Ray became more confident in his escape act. He went further afield. Collected apples and pine needles, to make tea. When pickings were especially slim he’d shave bark off trees. He’d read about that in a survival guide once.

Sometimes he’d take his spoils into The Button Hole, but he was a measly trader. Too anxious on his own. And, though he hadn’t admitted it to himself at the time, too afraid he’d run into William.

He kept them alive, though. Until he didn’t.

Ray heads to dinner extremely early, serves himself a plate before Peter can show up, and returns to his room to eat. He watches out the window as the sun sets on an unfamiliar landscape. A sudden yearning for the dusky pink sunset over the factory engulfs him. He hadn't even watched out the window as they'd left District 8 behind. 

Mid evening someone knocks on Ray’s door. For a long time he considers pretending to be asleep, but eventually gets up to open it. There’s no one there, only a slice of cake and a can of soda. Glancing down the corridor, Ray thinks he can see Peter heading into his room, but he can’t be sure.

Abandoning his window perch - he’s had enough of memories for one evening - Ray sits in bed eating cake then lies down and stares at the ceiling.

I’m going to die, he thinks for the millionth time that day. Better to familiarise himself with the thought than let it blindside him.

A grey dawn is peeking through the curtains when a sharp knocking on the door wakes Ray. He's surprised he slept.

He picks out a new shirt, equally plain and unassuming, and puts on yesterday’s pants. They should be arriving into the Capitol today, so he also shoves his baseball into his pocket. He thinks, briefly and fondly, of the last time it saw any use. A morning game of catch before school with his dad. Tossing it back and forth with Jimmy in the school yard. Then walking to Jimmy’s after school to eat jam sandwiches and draw comic strips. God, had he ever been that young?

As Ray approaches the dining car he sees two seats are filled this morning. Peter, once again waiting politely for him to join them, and William, nursing a cup of what Ray can only presume is strong, black coffee. His hip flask is sitting on the table beside him.

“Morning.” Peter pats his thigh as he sits down. Ray wonders if it’s common for straight men to touch each other so casually like that. He’d had a lot of friends, prior to his father’s disappearance, but after that friends just hadn’t seemed to matter to him anymore. Peter would’ve made a good friend, he thinks, only it’s a shame to realise that now.

This morning their food has already been selected for them: sausages, eggs, fried tomatoes, and toast. There’s a fruit basket on the table and assorted jugs of indeterminate beverages. He pours himself an inch of what turns out to just be milk, downs it, then picks up a warm jug and pours himself an inch of brown liquid. “Coffee?” He asks, tilting it for Peter to see.

“Nah, that one’s coffee.” Peter points to another jug. “I don’t know what that is.”

Ray takes a sip and his eyes widen.

“That bad, huh?” Peter chuckles.

“No, that good, you try it.” He pours Peter a cup of the sweet, creamy liquid. It tastes a lot like chocolate, which even when they were rich they didn’t buy often. Couldn’t, as it’s rarely dispatched to the District. Ray’s read about hot chocolate in books, he presumes that’s what this is, but when reading he’d always imagined it as melted chocolate.

“Damn.” Peter drains the cup in three gulps. “That’s good shit. You seen this, too?” He points to the fruit bowl. “That’s an honest to goodness orange. You ever seen one of those outside of picture books?”

“Never.”

“Let’s split it.”

As Peter starts cutting the orange in half a bitter laugh shatters their brief moment of levity. William is eyeing them over the table.

“Well, aren’t you two cute,” he laughs. “You know, you’re not here to make friends.”

“And you’re not here to get drunk, but you don’t hear us complaining,” Peter spits back, not even gracing William with eye contact. Suddenly his cheeks flush and he looks up at Ray. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right.” A horrible thought claws its way from the back of Ray’s mind and demands his attention. District 8 tributes don’t stand a very good chance in the Games. Working in textiles, hunched over a production line, in no way prepares them for a fight to the death. In fact, their tributes are more likely than any other District to be missing a digit or even an entire limb. But they’ve had some decent contenders before. Eighteen year old girls from the slightly nicer part of town who definitely could have held their own with a sword. Quick-witted sixteen year olds who would have thrived in the more complex arenas. But they never did. And the reason why is sitting right in front of Ray.

“You’re supposed to be our mentor,” Ray says. “So help us. Give us some advice. You did this once, how did you–” Sorry, mom, he thinks. “How did you do it?”

“You want advice?” William’s eyes darken. It’s almost as if he’s fighting against himself to get the words out. “Don’t get reaped, there’s some advice. He managed it.” He gestures at Peter who, wordlessly, stands up and smacks his hip flask off the table.

William lunges for Peter, but he’s too quick and too far away. Ray grabs his shoulders before he lands sprawled on the table, then throws him harshly back into his seat. He hits it hard, toppling over backwards so that his legs, and the chairs, are sticking up into the air.

Oh god, Ray thinks, we’ve really done it now.

Peter’s looking over at him with a confusing expression. Ray can’t tell if he’s impressed or afraid or a third thing entirely. Peter sits down very suddenly, tucking his chair under the table, and starts eating his half of the orange.

Ray sits down too and starts piling breakfast food onto toast to make a sandwich. He gets a couple of good bites in before William rights himself and sits back down at the table. Ray braces himself for an onslaught of insults, or maybe even a return attack. Neither comes.

“Well, well, well,” he grins. “Looks like I got a couple of fighters this year.” He gives Ray a once over. “You’ve got some muscle, then.”

“I guess. Must have my dad’s genes.”

His words mean nothing to William, who dismisses him and turns to Peter. “But you? You could be a star, I could get you sponsors, no problem. Look at you.” He reaches to touch Peter’s face, but he flinches away. “We can cover this with makeup. Or not, makes you look tough, I can sell tough. What happened there, you fight?”

“No, sir,” Peter says. “And I do not appreciate the implication. I was… Helping out a friend.”

“Loyalty.” He says the word like it’s a delicacy. “Even better.” William sits back and regards them once more. “Alright. Here’s the deal. I’ll stay sober enough to look out for you kids, but you–” He jabs a finger at Peter. “Do not interfere with my drinking habits, got it?”

They begrudgingly agree.

“Raymond Garraty and Peter McVries.” There’s a plastic, showman’s smile on his face. “District 8 could have a winner this year.”

“It’s just Ray, actually.” He feels foolish as soon as he’s said it. Why shouldn’t this man address him by what will be printed on his headstone? That’s all he’ll be known by in a week.

“Ray?” William’s voice softens as he says it. A noise not unlike a sob rises from his throat and sticks in his mouth. Heat prickles at Ray’s neck. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“While we’re on the topic,” Peter interrupts loudly, looking at Ray so intensely he’s forced to look back at him, “it’s just Pete.”

Ray’s heart begins to beat harder and faster until there’s a noticeable hitch in his breath. He looks down at his half-eaten breakfast. “So,” he addresses to the room, “When we get into the area, do we run for the Barracks–”

“Woah, woah,” William cuts him off. “All in good time. First things first. Shortly we’re going to be arriving into the Capitol. Smile. Wave. I’ll hand you off to your stylists - do what they say. Then we’ll talk.”

So much for looking out for us, Ray thinks. Some help he is.

They return to their breakfast, eating quietly until suddenly the light in the car dims. Outside the windows the world has gone black; they must be heading into a tunnel. The Capitol is surrounded on all sides by mountains, a way to fortify the military base they say.

Pete gets up and walks out into the corridor. “Come on,” he beckons. Ray joins him and they head towards the front of the train. 

“So, your dad,” Pete says. “Tell me if you don’t want to talk about this, but– He doesn’t know what happened? To him?”

“I don’t know exactly. He knows he was in the Games, that he won, and that he now has the honour of mentoring the District 8 tributes each year. He doesn’t remember me or my mom or my brother at all.”

“But during the recap we watched of the reapings, the presenter said you were his son. Won’t he see that?”

“Did he seem like he was in any state to see that?”

“No, but that’s what I’m saying. If he meant what he said, if he’ll sober up a little and help us, surely someone will ask about you. They’re not just going to admit on public access that they squadded a guy.”

Ray shrugs. He hadn’t really thought about it. It makes no difference to him either way. “He has some media sense. He’ll probably just say it’s an honour when any young man gets to compete in the Games.”

Being squadded is akin to being tortured, only with more medical intervention. William has had some part of his brain removed, or fried, or injected with something. And then what reminds has been subject to hours and hours of pro-military propaganda, likely alongside your more standard torture.

William will likely be aware that something happened to him, but reliably remembering his life before that is impossible. He tends to keep himself relatively isolated in the District, so while there were a few questions posed about his family they tended to come from other drunks and could be easily dismissed by William.

Up ahead light begins crashing through the windows, one after the other. They’re emerging into the Capitol. 

The Capitol is nothing like what Ray imagined. He’d seen it on TV, during news broadcasts, but they usually recorded outside of government buildings or inside news rooms. He’d been picturing a military dystopia: squat, khaki buildings, sand-tracked streets, a tank in every driveway. This is… opulent. Buildings are made of glass and rise ten, twenty stories into the air. There are green spaces, people walking in them. No military presence, no guns.

The Games aren’t just one big party to the Capitol. The Capitol is one big party that just happens to include the Games.

Pete seems unfazed by this. He’s at Ray’s elbow, not looking out at the ornate houses and gardens but staring at Ray.

“Maybe you’ll build a new relationship now,” Pete says. “Start again. When you go home.”

How does Pete not realise it yet? Even his own father does. Ray isn’t going home.

Chapter Text

Ray tries not to grit his teeth as he holds himself as still as possible. No one else has ever shaved his face before, and so far he’s not enjoying the experience. Every so often he cracks open an eye and catches sight of the two soldiers who have been tasked with “remaking” him. They don’t seem to particularly enjoy the task, but since Ray has been at least partially naked for every step he appreciates that. He’s not self conscious, per say, but he is a teenager. He’d rather not be looked at at all, if given the choice.

So far he’s had his eyebrows re-shaped, every inch of hair on his body thinned down and smoothed out, his hair cut - shorter than it’s been since he was a small child. He can no longer sweep it to the side and it instead sits forward on his forehead. Prior to that they also scrubbed him down with some sort of sandy liquid soap, then covered him in a sweet-smelling lotion. He can still feel it now, slightly sticky on his skin, and wishes he could escape to take another shower.

They step back and inspect him, murmuring to each other and then leaning in to trim a millimetre of his fringe or remove a single eyebrow hair. As much as it drives Ray crazy, they’re genuinely trying to help him. Once you’re in the arena the Games are no beauty contest, but looking good can help win you sponsors in the days leading up.

Ultimately, though, that will be decided by his stylist, who he’s yet to meet. Most of the work the soldiers have done will be covered by his outfit. Hopefully. Historically, that hasn’t always been the case.

Satisfied with their job, the soldiers scurry out of the room. Ray considers getting up to retrieve a robe from the other side of the room, but decides it will be even more embarrassing if someone walks in on him naked and walking around than naked and sitting on the table.

The door opens and he tenses, ready to meet the person who will decide his fate for the next two days, but it’s just one of the soldiers returning. She crosses the room, holding a syringe in her hand.

“What is that?” Ray asks.

She doesn’t answer him, but in two swift, practised motions she grabs his face and stabs it into his jaw.

“Aw!” Ray presses down on the pinprick entrance wound, but she’s already finished. “What will that do to me?”

Again, she ignores him, walking back out of the room.

Ray gently massages his jaw. After a moment or so the stinging sensation goes away. He tries to hold still and focus on his body, attempting to figure out where in his body the injected liquid is operating, but he’s so anxious it’s hard to feel anything.

When the door opens again several minutes later it’s not someone in army fatigues but a young man with close cropped hair. He catches sight of Ray and immediately covers his eyes.

“Oh lord, you’re naked, why are you naked?”

“Sorry!” Ray jumps up and grabs a dressing gown from a hook on the wall, quickly wrapping it around himself. “They told me to– And then they just left– I assumed–”

“It’s alright, it’s alright.” The man laughs a little and uncovers his face. He barely looks older than Ray. And he doesn’t look like any of the fancy, well-dressed people Ray has seen since they pulled into the Capitol. He could be an off-duty soldier, Ray supposes, but he’d always assumed stylists were actual, well, stylists. “I’m Art Baker, you must be Raymond Garraty. I’m sorry you’re here.”

“You don’t think it’s an honour?”

“Absolutely not. I’m only two years past the reaping myself, never been so scared in my life as I was on those days and let me tell you, I ain’t had it easy.”

“You’re from the Districts?” Ray asks. He hadn’t thought they let you leave your district for anything but the Games. To compete in them, that is.

“Yes I am. Brought me up as a “special honour”, not that I could refuse. Think a lot of stylists are from the Districts this year. Apparently Capitol people don’t like hearing the kids complain that they’re being prepared for slaughter.” he catches himself suddenly. “Not you, though, I’m sure you’ll win.”

“I won’t complain. Promise.” Ray smiles despite himself. He likes Art.

Instead of poking and prodding at him and making adjustments to his outfit, Art takes him into a small, comfy meeting room to eat lunch. He ladles him out a big bowl of stew with a chunk of bread on the side.

“Um.” Ray hesitates. “You’re going to be putting me in your fancy outfit in a minute–”

“And what? You think it’s a body con dress?” Art laughs. “You’re cute, but you’re not that cute. Eat your stew.”

Ray does.

“Listen, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your dad,” Art says. 

“That’s not my dad. At least, not anymore.”

“That’s what I mean.” His tone is solemn and he looks at Ray with such care as he speaks. “They told everybody he walked out on you, and maybe they believed it here in the Capitol, but in the Districts? We know.” Art extends his index finger and thumb and points it to his head, then mimes pulling the trigger. 

“Which District are you from?” Ray asks.

Art shakes his head. His eyes flick up and Ray follows his gaze. A camera. “Not supposed to say.”

From his accent, Ray would assume somewhere down south. Districts 10 or 11. He’s curious about what life is like elsewhere, but the exact District number wouldn’t really mean anything to him anyway. In school they learn every District’s main export and that’s it.

“And you’re a stylist there?” That’s very different to District 8, where they produce an ungodly amount of clothing each day but not a single person in the District could be said to be fashionable. 

Art gives a genuine laugh. “No, no, no. I work at my late uncle’s funeral home. I make corpses pretty before they meet their maker.”

“Huh. Fitting.” Ray wonders if they’ll let Art see to him before he’s sent home to his mother. That would be nice. The least they could do, really. “You a religious man?”

There are some remnants of religion left in North America. Some people who wear rosaries, some who hang mezuzahs on their doors, some who build shrines in their homes when they wish for good fortune. But generally if you’re the worshipping sort you worship the Major and if you’re not. Well. You don’t.

“No, not really,” Art replies. “I just think it’s beautiful that we used to believe in something.”

They eat, then head back into the remake room. While they were absent someone had left a garment bag for Art, presumably containing his outfit for the evening.

Art positions Ray with his back to him, then sets about unzipping the garment bag. Every so often Ray can feel him hold up a piece of fabric against his body, then there’s the sound of scissors and the soft pressing of a needle into thick fabric. He remains facing the wall - clearly Art wants this to be a surprise.

“You watch the Games?” Art asks.

“Isn’t it mandatory?” It’s impossible to check if everyone in the District is tuned in. But during the evenings, while the Games are running, there’s a mandatory one hour lockdown each night during which you must be in your home with the TV on. Ray has always been fortunate to live somewhere with multiple rooms. If he wanted to ignore the broadcast he could. However, as he grew to become eligible for the reaping, he often found himself watching anyway. Just in case what he saw would ever come in handy.

“It is back home, didn’t know if that went for everyone,” Art says. “So you know your outfit is supposed to reflect one of the exports of your District?”

Working in textiles, District 8 is not as limited as, say, District 12, where their main export is coal. You can get away with pretty much any outfit, as they’re all made of fabric at the end of the day. But he found that this usually leads to lazy and uninspired designs. District 8 always ends up being forgettable.

“Yeah, I know that,” Ray says. Plain black suit, he thinks. Blue, if Art’s feeling fancy.

“Now, I’ve gone for kind of a two-for-one. The rules are ‘your District’s exports’. Not main export. And the way I see it, District 8 gives the Capitol two main things. Would you mind taking your robe off for me?” Art gives him some very simple undergarments to put on. “Do you know what happens to all these outfits tributes have made?”

Ray waits to see if Art genuinely wants him to answer. Maybe he did, but in Ray’s silence he just presses on.

“Some are auctioned off, especially if the tribute makes it to the final five. But the rest of them just sit here, in a basement, way, way down below the tribute centre. Do you read, Ray?”

“Yeah, I love to read.” Of all the childish pastimes Ray had given up in favour of taking care of his family, reading wasn’t one of them. The television only plays the Games or Capitol news broadcasts. Books are his only real option of escape. Well, books and literal escaping.

“Do you know Mary Shelley? Frankenstein?”

Art has him step into some pants - still without looking - and helps him into a shirt, doing up the buttons. 

“I’ve seen it mentioned in other books, but I’ve never seen a copy,” Ray tells him.

“Then I’m sure you know the basic premise. A man builds another man using the body parts of several dead men.”

Finally, Art turns Ray around and lets him look in the mirror. At first he doesn’t really know what he’s looking at. He’s not wearing one outfit, he’s wearing fifty fragments of fifty outfits. His shirt and pants, both very simple in cut and design, have been sewn together from jagged offcuts of different articles of clothing. Looking closer, Ray even begins to recognise some of them. There’s a square from the denim jumpsuit one of last year’s tributes wore. An intricate patterned strip down his leg from when the stylist had been aiming for a style they called ‘70s’. A patch of silky black over his chest–

“My dad’s,” Ray says softly, running his fingers over the soft fabric.

“A recreation of it,” Art says. “The real thing was sold after he won. I hope you don’t mind.”

Ray shakes his head, worried if he speaks his voice will crack. No, he doesn’t mind at all.

Art makes a few more adjustments to the length of his sleeves and pant legs, then moves into makeup. It’s a simple but effective look - small stitches running across his bare skin to give the impression he, too, has been sewn together. Then Art offers him a small dish of water with something floating in it. “Just to really sell it,” he says.

“What is that?” It looks, quite honestly, like two globules of spit floating in there.

“They’re cloudy contact lenses. Lack of blood flow to the cornea after death.” When Ray continues staring at him blankly he adds, “They go in your eyes.”

“Oh.” 

Art helps him put them in. He's surprised to find they don’t cloud his vision at all, but they do make his eyes itch. Art promises he can take them out as soon as they dismount from the chariot. It’s worth it, though. With the contact lenses he really looks like an otherworldly beast, cobbled together from the deaths of others.

“What’s Pete going to be wearing?” He asks.

“Something similar. I talked with his stylist, we figured you guys should match.” Tributes often end up matching to some degree, since there’s only so much you can do with your District’s theme (unless, as he’s just proven, you’re Art), but generally they’re presented as enemies. Which is strange, because more often than not District partners form alliances.

Ray wonders if there would be any benefit in formally enlisting Pete as an ally. He did say he wouldn’t protect Ray in the arena, but otherwise his actions have been more than friendly. It would mean Ray could keep a better eye on him. Then again, maybe the best strategy is just to leave Pete to it. Ray isn’t confident enough in his own skills to say he could definitely protect him. And right now Pete seems to stand a pretty good chance on his own. The best thing Ray can do, he decides, is run away and die quietly. 

Art leads him down to the bottom floor of the remake centre, where they’ve spent the day. The elevator opens into a small reception area, which leads immediately into a huge stable. Twelve chariots, each led by two horses, are lined up ready for the parade. 

They make their way over to the District 8 chariot where Pete is chatting with a lady, presumably his own stylist. For a moment Ray feels jealous, watching their easy back and forth, but he quickly shakes himself right. Wasn’t he just musing on how much he likes Art?

Pete immediately breaks off his conversation when he sees Ray. “Wow.” He grabs Ray by the waist and holds him at arm’s length, taking in his costume. Ray stiffens a little. It’s not common, in his day to day life, to be suddenly grabbed by the waist. “You look… This is all kind of insane, huh?”

“You look amazing,” Ray says. Pete is wearing a similar outfit to his own, but, naturally, composed of different segments of different garments. There are a few more feminine pieces in there, but they suit him. His face is also a patchwork of faux stitches, including along his scar.

“I don’t think, in the history of the Games, this has ever been done.” They look around at the other tributes. Some of them look very nice, but none of them are as memorable as him and Pete. “District 8’s main exports: textiles and tributes.”

The District 1 chariot begins to pull out, so Art directs them into the back of their own chariot. He wishes them luck, as does Pete’s stylist, and as they begin to pull away themselves he shouts something after them.

“What’s he saying?” Ray asks.

“I think he wants us to hold hands.”

Ray laughs. Pete doesn’t - he offers his hand to Ray. Ray looks back at Art, who nods in confirmation. He takes Pete’s hand.

And he’s glad he does, because as soon as they exit the stables the horses speed up and every muscle in Ray’s body is fighting to keep himself upright. A brass band is playing old war songs and the streets are lined with screaming Capitol citizens, all the noise colliding to form a horrible cacophony. They’re to travel down this main stretch of Capitol streets, swing past the Major’s mansion where he’ll give a brief speech, then head into the tribute centre, where they’ll remain until the Games.

It takes the crowds a moment to notice him and Pete - there’s a lot going on - but when they do they begin to scream. At first Ray thinks it may be in fear, they do appear quite terrifying, especially from a distance, but after a moment he realises they’re exciting. Screams of, “Look at their costumes,” and, “Those are old tribute costumes!” ripple through the crowds. Eventually they fish out their programmes to find the boys’ names, and cries of, “That’s William Garraty’s son!” begin circulating too. Some people chant his name. People wave at him. And all Ray can do is cling to Pete’s hand and stare straight ahead.

“I love you,” Pete shouts over the crowds.

“What?”

“I said, ‘They love you’,” Pete shouts a little louder.

His left hand still holding tight to Ray’s, Pete raises his other hand and gives a stiff, zombie-like wave. The crowd goes wild. He raises an eyebrow at Ray, a silent, ‘Go on, you try it.’

The thought of waving to those people makes him feel sick, but he wants to make Pete look good, so he finds a group of small children pressed up against the barricade and waves. The little boys go wild and one of the girls pretends to faint onto her friend. He keeps picking people out of the crowd, people he convinces himself aren’t as bad as the others, and waving to them until they reach the end of the road - the Major’s mansion. All twelve chariots pull up alongside each other and the band fades out for the Major to speak. He’s too far away to properly make out from where Ray is, but there’s a screen broadcasting his speech to the crowd. The Major is a man in his sixties, average height but still very well built. While he’s the so-called head of the military Ray doubts he’s actually seen any action, but maybe that’s just echoing something his father once said. He’s wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He’s always wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Ray used to wonder if something horrible had happened to his eyes before Jan told him it was because he didn’t want people looking him in the eye. We’re below that, she’d say, not worth making eye contact with.

The Major churns out three very generic lines about how honoured the tributes should be, why it’s important to continue with the Games, and wishing the tributes luck.

As the chariots begin to pull out again they’re featured on the television screen. District 8 receives more than its fair share of screen time, Ray notes with a smile.

Ray loosens his grip on Pete as they pull into the tribute centre, and realises he must have been squeezing him half to death. Before he can even begin to apologise Pete says, “Man, I’m so glad you were holding onto me in there. I was so sure I was going to fall flat on my back, make this zombie costume a reality.”

“That was intense,” Ray agrees. He steps down from the chariot, then reaches his hand back out to help Pete. Pete takes it, but still missteps, landing just an inch from Ray’s face. They stare at each other. Even beneath the contacts, Ray can see how dilated his pupils are. He isn’t breathing, so Ray holds his breath too. People must be looking at them. This is strange, what they’re doing is strange, surely people are staring. But Ray can’t bring himself to take a step back. 

Suddenly Pete inhales sharply and puts a hand on Ray’s chest, physically forcing them apart. “Whoops,” he says, low and soft and still looking up at Ray. “I should be more careful, seeing as we’re going into the arena.”

Then he walks past Ray, waving and shouting his appreciation to his stylist.

Ray whips round to continue his staring match, a single thought on his mind: what the fuck was that?

Chapter Text

The tribute centre is a huge apartment block, stretching thirteen floors high and who knows how many more below ground. Each District has their own floor to reside on as they prepare for the Games. Although District 8 means a fairly middling floor, all things considered, Ray still finds himself captivated by the views. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this high up before. 

His bedroom is huge, more than twice the size of his apartment back home, and once again complete with a wardrobe and en-suite. Ray carefully removes his contact lenses and fake stitches. He considers leaving his parade outfit on, but away from the cheering crowds and Art’s magnanimous intensity it seems a little insensitive to be wearing the clothing of the dead.

When he opens the wardrobe this time it’s filled with soft, thin clothing like the shirts Ray used to have to borrow for PE in school. Presumably it’s to facilitate the training they’ll be doing over the next few days. He doesn’t feel like wearing skintight lycra to dinner, so he picks out a pair of soft cotton pants and sweatshirt. The resulting outfit makes him look very young and looking at his reflection strikes Ray with a sudden pang of homesickness. He forces himself to look away and join the others in the dining area.

The stylists have joined them for dinner, so there’s a slightly more jovial atmosphere than Ray’s used to. He sits as far away from William as possible and mostly listens to Pete whilst eating potatoes prepared a variety of ways. Their potatoes at home are grown in a squat little plant pot out in the corridor, which harvests about ten every two months, and then they’re not good for much more than boiling. These potatoes are fried, baked in herbs, mashed with cheese and garlic, cooked in a dish with a creamy sauce. Ray decides he would probably be fine eating just potatoes for the rest of his life, until Pete offers him a scoop of roasted vegetables.

Partway through the meal a server steps in to offer him some wine. Ray goes to decline it - he’s never touched a drop of alcohol, though it’s common for his classmates to go out drinking after work - but when he catches sight of the server his eyes widen. “Hey, I, I know you,” he says hesitantly. He just can’t quite remember from where.

“You’re crazy, kid,” William says. He’s staring at Ray, his eyes cold. “You wouldn’t know an Avox.”

“What is that?” Ray asks. The server is still standing at his elbow, eyes blown wide.

“It’s what they do to you if they aren’t gonna–” Art's gaze flicks to William for a moment. “Squad you. They cut out your tongue and keep you here as a servant. Usually happens to Capitol citizens, if they disobey the Major and he has no use for them.”

“Oh.” Ray pushes away his third serving of potatoes, because who could eat after that? “Sorry, I just, um…”

Pete elbows him gently. “Aaron Davis. From school. Looks just like him, doesn’t he?”

The server is a pale man with short, platinum blond hair in, Ray would estimate, his early twenties. Aaron Davis is a younger brother of one of Pete’s friends, a mixed kid with twists down to his shoulders who always seems to be yelling about something. The two could not look less alike.

But Ray takes the easy out. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, trying not to be so agreeable it wraps back around to sounding false.

The energy at the table relaxes - William stops staring daggers at him - and the server moves to stand at the edge of the room. Ray waits while everyone else finishes eating, sipping on his water, then when they head into the seating area to watch a recap of the parade sandwiches himself between the edge of the couch and Pete. He’s the closest thing to home Ray has out here.

William, who was absent during the parade, seems thoroughly impressed by their performance. “Nice way to pay tribute to the men who fought before you,” he says.

“You mean children,” Art murmurs under his breath.

“Who’s idea was the hand holding?”

Ray freezes. That’s not your dad, he reminds himself. Whatever this drunk old man says next in no way reflects what your father would’ve thought if you’d ever got around to telling him… Ray’s thought trails off. Telling him what? That he’s such a huge failure in the dating department that even when he doubled his dating pool he couldn’t find a partner? Whose father wouldn’t be proud to hear that? At least, in his defence, he’d never tried all that hard.

“Mine,” Art tells him.

“Nice. Present yourself as a team, that’s good.”

As soon as the recap ends Ray excuses himself to bed and Pete stands up to follow him.

“Before you go–” They halt to listen to William. “Tomorrow’s your first day of training. Meet me for breakfast, we’ll go over the game plan.” Both boys nod. “And Ray, I–” He rises from the couch and takes a step towards them. He’s once again looking very intensely at Ray. Scanning his entire face, it seems. He shakes his head. “Sorry. Get some rest.”

Ray and Pete head towards the corridor leading to their bedrooms. Ray reaches for the door handle, but before he can disappear Pete steps slightly in front of him. “So.” He raises an eyebrow. “Aaron Davis, huh? Fancy seeing old Aaron Davis up here in the Capitol.”

He wants an explanation. Of course he does, he covered for him after all. But Ray doesn’t trust that anything he says inside the tribute centre will remain within these walls.

He would like to talk to someone, though. The thought of that young man with his maimed tongue, trapped here forever…

“Hey.” Seeming to sense his anxiety, Pete touches him gently on the arm. “You seen the balcony yet? It’s pretty sweet.”

Just at the end of the corridor is a door that leads to a balcony encircling the entire building. He follows Pete through the door and out into the warm evening air. Down below he can hear the distance sounds of cars and way, way off in the distance he can see the mountains. Somewhere beyond there is home.

They walk to the railing and lean against it, looking down at the tiny people crawling around like ants. A sudden thought occurs to Ray and he pushes himself up onto his tiptoes, leaning over the barrier.

“That’s a no-go, I’m afraid,” Pete says. “I asked William about it. There’s a forcefield around the whole thing, on every floor. Look.” He bends down and scoops up a small pebble, tossing it over the balcony. A couple of seconds later it comes bouncing back. “Plus, after that entrance we made, I reckon you stand a pretty good chance.”

“We stand a pretty good chance,” Ray corrects him. Pete just shrugs.

Ray knows he’s waiting for an explanation, but he doesn’t know where to begin. It’s common knowledge that Ray trades at The Button Hole, but outside of there how many people know he leaves the District? Would Pete care about something like that? It’s not likely.

“I know you go over the fence,” Pete cuts into his thoughts. “Presume this has something to do with that.”

“We were out fishing in this little pond in the woods–”

“You and–” Pete jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “That guy?”

“No, my father never took me over the fence. Me and Jan. You know, from school?”

“Yeah, I know Jan from school.” Pete suddenly seems less interested in his story, but Ray pushes on anyway. 

“Suddenly all the birds stopped singing, you know, like they do when a hovercraft is coming in to land. One gave a warning call. We didn’t know what was happening, so Jan and I just made a dash for this little rocky outcropping. Dove underneath it. And that’s when we saw him. He was in soldiers’ uniform but there was a girl with him, a woman maybe but young. And she wasn’t a soldier, she was from the Districts, but maybe not ours. He was ushering her through the woods. 

“Then the hovercraft appeared. It was so fast. They dropped a net on the soldier, the server, the guy, and they shot at the girl. Dropped a claw down and retrieved the body, but she was definitely dead. And then it disappeared. The birds started singing again. Like nothing had happened.”

“Did they see you?” Pete asked.

“The hovercraft, or–”

“The people.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Ray says. “We were hidden.”

But that’s a lie. The soldier had seen him, Ray knew it. Even beneath the rocky outcropping he’d met his eye, screamed something, probably for help. But Ray had just laid there, frozen. 

“What do you think they were doing out there?”

Ray shrugs. From that side of the District, if you walk for about a week, you can probably make it to District 12. But from there? Nothing but a bombed wasteland and encroaching sea.

“I don’t know,” Ray says. “He must have been from the Capitol, right? And it's not like you can flee anywhere better than here.”

“I’d leave here,” Pete says immediately. “You know, go home again. Be with my family.”

“Yeah,” Ray agrees, though he’s certain Pete’s comment was deeper than that.

A chilly wind starts to blow through them, so they head back inside. 

“Jan, she’s got a sister in Katrina's grade, right?” Pete asks.

Ray nods. “Yeah, she does. You know her?”

“Nah. Katrina plays birdnests with her sister sometimes though.” He says that like Ray’s supposed to know what it means. Just something you know, he supposes, when you have a sister. “The boys talk about her a lot. How could they not? Cool, strong girl like her.”

“Yeah.” Jan is cool, and strong, but thinking about her makes Ray’s heart ache.

“She’s not your cousin, right?"

“No. We just look alike. Ish.”  Ray feels like he should ask Pete something in return, but this is such a bizarre line of questioning he doesn’t know where to begin. 

“Cool." Pete nods, looking down at his shoes. “You guys get to say goodbye?”

“Yeah, she came to see me. So did your mom.”

This, it seems, is news to Pete, but he takes it in his stride. “Nice of her. She used to know your dad, you know?”

“No?” Ray remembered seeing Pete around school when they were younger, when he still lived with his father, but he was pretty sure he’d remember if their families had been close. 

They arrive at Ray’s door. He feels like something in their conversation went over his head, several things in fact, but he’s tired and can’t figure out what. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

Pete reaches out and affectionately pats his cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

When Ray opens his door the blond server is laying an outfit and a note at the base of his bed. They lock eyes, both looking panicked. “Hey, I’m sorry, you don’t need to do that,” Ray says.

He holds out the note for Ray to read. It’s from William, instructing him to wear these clothes tomorrow for training.

“Oh. Thank you.” He doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m so sorry, could you do me a favour and bring these back to Art?” Ray ducks down and scoops up his parade outfit, offering it out to the server. “I know I should do it, but, I’m sorry.”

The server takes the clothes with a nod of assent and heads out of the room.

Completely disregarding the clothing William has left for him, Ray flops onto the bed. He’d cry if he didn’t feel so emotionally dead inside. He’d been prepared to apologise the second he remembered who the man was, but how could an apology ever suffice? He’d watched them kill the girl and let them take this man away to rip out his tongue. He’d done nothing. 

At least now, Ray thinks, my death will make one person happy.

Chapter Text

Ray sleeps deeply, but his sleep is plagued with nightmares. When he wakes he doesn’t feel particularly well rested. Until now he’s been primarily sustained on fear and sadness, but after three straight days they’re starting to wear thin. Now he’s just pissed off.

He slams on the hot tap, taking a shower that almost scolds his skin, then dresses in the outfit William left for him last night. Ugh. It’s a pair of baggy beige pants and a tight-fitting khaki top. He looks like a soldier-in-training. He can’t wear this in front of the other tributes.

Wrenching the door open, Ray marches down the corridor and declares exactly that to the dining room. William raises his hip flask towards him in greeting. “And good morning to you, too.”

“I’m not wearing this, this is ridiculous–” He catches sight of Pete, who’s dressed identically aside from the fact that he’s rolled his sleeves up to make his shirt look like a tank top. “Why are we still dressed the same? We’re not five.”

“Sleep well?” William is smirking at him in a way that makes Ray want to slap him. 

He crosses to the table but doesn’t sit down. Pete, who hasn’t said a word so far, is staring at him. Not at his face but at his torso, mouth hanging slightly open. In a rare moment of insecurity, Ray reaches to pull his tshirt away from his stomach, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t want William to think he’s worried about looking chubby, which he isn’t, rather than looking like a fool, which he is.

“Yeah, I slept so well, as well as anybody on death row would. You know what, actually, I’ve had a thought. It’s: fuck this. Fuck the Hunger Games. Fuck training, when we’re all going to be dead in a week anyway. What a way to spend our last days. Fuck.” 

William all but rolls his eyes to look up at Ray. “You done?”

Ray sits down in his chair and, as angrily as one can pour juice, pours himself a glass. Pete’s still staring at him. Ray swings round. “What are you looking at?” Pete’s eyes flick momentarily up to his face, then down to his chest, then down to his stomach. “Stop looking at me!” Ray snaps.

“Uh huh, yeah, totally, I hear you,” Pete murmurs. He reaches blindly for a glass of water, grabs it, then pours it over his head. Only as the icy liquid drips into his eyes does he turn away, drying his face with a napkin. He crosses his legs and tucks his chair further under the table, flushed face tilted down towards his plate.

“What is with you guys this morning?” There’s a note of genuine concern in William’s voice now. “If you’d given me just a moment, I would have explained that the Gamemakers will be present throughout your training. You’re dressed like this to remind them who’s really fighting for our country.”

Ray frowns. That sounds almost exactly like something his father used to say.

A little ashamed of his childish outburst, even though he felt very entitled to it at the time, Ray makes himself very busy eating pastries and fruit. Pete is sipping on a glass of water, also looking deeply embarrassed. 

William starts chuckling to himself. He’s looking at Ray and smiling. “You’ve got a temper,” he says with a grin. “Never would’ve known. What else are you boys good at?”

Neither of them answer.

“What, you want to be trained separately?” 

Ray looks queryingly to Pete, but now he’s refusing to look at him. “I don’t mind,” he says.

“Yeah, you can train us together,” Pete tells his plate.

“Alright. Then spit it out.”

“I can’t really do anything,” Pete starts. “Aside from sewing. And playing guitar. Don’t think that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I am not. Ray?”

Ray shrugs. “I’m half-decent with an axe, but I’ve never used one on a person.”

“Then what have you used one on?”

“Trees,” Pete jumps in. “All kinds. Ancient oaks even, shit like that. And chops them all up into firewood, that’s how he got those biceps.”

Ray blushes. Pete noticing his illegal firewood operation is one thing, but why would he be sitting around wondering how Ray got so buff?

“He can run, too.” It seems Pete isn’t done yet. “Like, it’s crazy, I’ve never seen somebody run like that.”

“You fast?” William asks. Ray doesn’t appreciate the scepticism in his voice.

“It’s not really that.” Pete’s still talking for him. “It’s the stamina. One hundred, two hundred, five hundred metres and at least one other kid’s got him beat. But long distance? He’s the reigning champion, has been since he was about fourteen. He can go for hours at a steady pace, maybe even days if he had to.”

“What are you doing?” Ray asks.

“He’s trying to help us, at least let him know what he’s working with,” Pete says.

Fine. Two can play at that game. “Pete’s strong. He’s a carrier at the factory, all he does all shift is move around hundreds of kilograms of fabric.

“He knows how to fight. I see him teaching his sister and her friends hand to hand combat all the time. But he’s too smart to get into fights himself, he always talks his way out of them.”

“Oh, I can see that working out great for me in the arena,” Pete replies. “Let me just talk my way out of a death match.”

Ray’s surprised by how closely he’s been keeping up with Peter McVries. It’s pretty hard to let go of the person who saves your life.

“Charm is not to be dismissed,” William says. “You can convince the other tributes you’re a threat, you can win over sponsors. And you.” He rounds on Ray. “Any weapons experience is an advantage in the arena. Don’t let anybody know you’re good with an axe, let that be a nice little surprise to them. Get yourself a good training score, remain mysterious, the sponsors will roll in.”

“I really don’t think–” Ray starts, but Pete cuts him off.

“He has no idea. The lengths people would go to for him.”

Ray frowns. What does that mean? Who was going to great lengths for him when his father was taken away? When his brother was dying? When his brother was dead? Who, except Pete…

“Alright.” William stands, clearly indicating they should too. “This has been a… strange morning. Get yourselves down to the training floor. Learn some new skills, keep an eye on your competition, and unless you’re planning to make any allies in there, stay together. You’ll look stronger as a team.” He walks them to the elevator and they begin their descent. 

Ray has no issue being around Pete, but it is unprecedented and a little uncomfortable. Surely they should be getting to know each other as little as possible so that when one of them inevitably dies the other doesn’t go completely insane? It’s happened a lot in past arenas - district partners being so wracked by grief that they either give up then and there or something inside them breaks and they go on a mad killing spree. It’ll do Pete no good, Ray thinks, if he gets attached to me.

He makes a decision right there that while they can be friendly in training they should stay well away from each other in the arena. 

The elevator opens onto the training floor, a ginormous gymnasium built around a central viewing platform. That’s where the Gamemakers will observe from over the next few days. The majority of tributes have already gathered. Someone pins a number 8 to Ray and Pete, which he notes is the only similarity between other tributes’ outfits. No one else is dressed in army fatigues. No one else is dressed alike. 

Ignoring the sensation that someone’s staring right at him, Ray moves in with the other tributes to half-listen to a speech about how to best use their training time - there are various stations, don’t engage with another tribute, trainers on hand etcetera. As he does so, he takes stock of the other tributes. The Conscripts - a group of tributes generally from Districts 1, 2, and 4 who were nicknamed as such due to overwhelmingly being volunteers - have naturally gravitated to each other already. At least half of them are taller and physically bigger than Ray, but the ones that aren’t are lean in a way that makes him think they could easily evade a clumsy axe swing. He’s correct, too, about being stared at. The boy tribute from District 2 can’t take his eyes off him. Now, a good eleven floors away from William’s snide tone, Ray caves and crosses his arms over his waist. 

When it comes to the other tributes, the non-Conscripts, Ray definitely seems to have the physical advantage. Well, maybe not over the older boy from 12, but the rest. It’s kind of awful, looking out over this sea of children, knowing their fates. The twelve year old - Curly, Ray learned from watching the parade - stands partially obscured behind his District partner, who doesn’t acknowledge him but seems content for him to be there.

Speech over, the crowd disperses. The Conscripts head over to a wall hung with deadly weapons and begin hacking away at mannequins and engaging in combat with trainers. All of them except the District 2 boy, who meanders to a nearby plant identification station and continues to stare through his eyelashes at Ray.

“Ray.” Ray startles. “What do you want to do?” Pete asks.

He’s tempted to head over to plant identification and ask this guy what his deal is, but he suggests they head to snares instead. Ray can fish, but who knows if the arena will even have water? Jan knows a few simple snares and had tried to teach him once, but either he’d done it wrong or no wildlife had meandered though. Even Jan only averaged a rabbit a week.

The instructor seems impressed that he knows anything at all, however, and happily teaches them a few snares to catch food, then a couple to catch people. Pete doesn’t take too kindly to the latter, but Ray excels at both. 

Afterwards they move onto the equally deserted camouflage station. Here Pete seems a bit more at home, enjoying weaving vines into lean-tos and using mud to obscure his clothing. Ray can’t seem to make himself look anything but dirty, so re-engages his staring match with District 2. The boy has moved onto the snares station, as if he’s following them around.

“Who is that?” Ray asks, trying to ignore the fact that half of Pete’s face is covered in moss.

“Your little buddy over there?”

“Little?” Ray scoffs. He’s easily the biggest guy in here, well over six feet and built like a machine. Definitely someone who’s been training since a young age. Not for the Games, as technically that’s illegal, but in District 2 the children are trained to be soldiers from thirteen upwards.

“Billy Stebbins, District 2.”

“He looks familiar,” Ray says.

“Another one of your friends from outside the fence? 2’s a long way aways.”

“No.” Ray shakes his head. “He looks like someone. I can’t think who.”

They sit alone in the cafeteria for lunch, at least they try to. Noiselessly, Curly places his tray opposite Ray and sits down. 

“Hey,” Ray says softly.

“Nope.” As he walks past, Curly’s District partner grabs him by the back of his shirt and starts to drag him over to another table. 

“No, no, it’s okay. He can sit there,” Ray insists. 

“Of course he can sit there, he’s fucking great. I don’t want him sitting with you, city boy.” He breaks eye contact with Ray to give Pete a polite nod, who nods in return. 

“I wouldn’t really call District 8 a city…”

“Spoken like a true city boy.” 

“Well… Maybe you can sit here too. Then he won’t just be sitting with… city boys.”

He considers it, glances over at the rowdy table of careers, then takes a seat beside Curly. Ray extends his hand across the table. “Hi, I’m Ray–”

“Garraty. William Garraty’s son. We all know you.” So maybe that’s why Stebbins is staring, Ray thinks. “Fucked up what they did to your dad.” He shakes Ray’s still-outstretched hand. “Collie Parker.”

Pete and Collie begin a very surface-level chat about music, which Ray appreciates since in the past ten seconds he’s grown quite fond of Collie and doesn’t like the thought that he’s going to die. He’s grateful, too, when Curly dismisses most of his questions with yes or no answers and the pair get to eat in silence. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon picking up more soft skills, sometimes sharing a station with Curly and Collie. Ray learns, against his will, that the chipper boy from 5 is called Hank and he’s ridiculously good on the climbing wall. They steer clear of the Conscripts. 

At dinner and breakfast William grills them about their day. Who did they talk to, what were they good at, did they learn anything new, were the Gamemakers impressed? Ray tries his best to recount anything useful, but mostly he just feels tired. He doesn’t know how he can spend another two days around people he knows will die soon. He wishes Art would join them for another meal; this must be what working in a funeral home feels like. Surrounded by the dead.

The next day they make their way over to the weapons wall. Ray is careful to select only things he feels he’ll perform poorly with, but would like to try. Throwing knives are a disaster, especially since he’s seen the District 1 boy throw - he never misses. But he discovers he’s decent with a spear. Pete is excellent with a long sword and a mace, but lacks any of Ray’s accuracy with range weapons. An attempt with a bow and arrow almost lands him with a skewered foot.

From this vantage point they can also see what weapons others are proficient in. There’s the District 1 boy and his knives of course, and his District partner who seems to favour the bow and arrow. Stebbins, who didn’t touch the weapons yesterday but once again seems to be tailing him and Pete, has spent the day with two katanas strapped to his back. He’s wicked with them, but when they’re not in use the hilts stick up from behind his head like bunny’s ears. Collie’s accurate with a spear up to forty metres away and Curly’s a natural with a blow gun. Ray’s pretty certain he saw Hank bite an instructor’s throat in hand to hand combat, but he might be mistaken. Everyone poses at least some threat as an opponent.

Just after lunch a commotion starts up in the weapons practice area. Ray, who’s just about mastered reliably hitting the target with a bow and arrow, turns to see the District 1 boy standing over a small, thin boy from District 3. He’s casually wielding a knife and taunting him.

“It’s honestly embarrassing your mother let you out of the house with that haircut, never mind on television,” he’s saying. 

Soldiers start to move in on him, but if he wants to make a move they’ll be too slow. Instinctively Ray moves over, covering the distance in three long strides. He hesitates to engage with the District 1 boy, he hasn’t exactly proven himself to be the most stable individual in the past few days, so instead Ray places himself directly in front of the boy, back to District 1.

“Are you okay?” He asks. “Let me help you.”

“Oh!” District 1 starts shouting behind him. “You don’t even know how it is! That little worm started it!”

“Just leave it alone, we’re not supposed to fight.” Ray keeps his eyes locked on the District 3 boy. He knows that if he looks away everyone’s eyes will be on him. He’s just selected himself as an excellent first target for the Conscripts. 

“We’re not supposed to get caught fighting.” He moves in close to Ray, who gently but firmly pushes District 3 backwards and out of range. “I reckon I have a good few seconds to–”

“Yo, Barkovitch.” Pete’s kept his distance, but he’s standing firm, hands balled into fists and glaring at District 1 - Barkovitch - in fury. “You gonna kill that little boy, Barkovitch? That isn’t good sportsmanship. Thought they trained you good in District 1, you shouldn’t need to cheat.”

Barkovitch moves away from Ray. His eyes are darting around now, seeking out the kind of support Ray seems to find himself with. No one steps forward. He goes for a different tactic. “You defending him? Your little outfit twin? You two are such a couple of queers.” That, too, elicits nothing but silence from the crowd. Homosexuality is generally frowned upon in District 8, but it’s by no means a crime. Most people are too preoccupied with their own lives to worry about other people’s.

“So what if we are, I should be so lucky.” Pete takes a step forward and Barkovitch flinches backwards. “Move along, killer.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” Barkovitch mutters.

“We all saw you, killer, fuck off.”

The soldiers are on them now. Despite being in the middle of things they ignore Ray, instead shadowing Barkovitch and Pete. Pete shrugged his guy off and heads over to the water station. Barkovitch watches, the light fading from his eyes, as everyone else quietly disperses. 

Ray begins to head for the fire lighting station. An easy win for him, he hopes. He feels a tug on his arm and turns to find Barkovitch. The soldier now has a gun trained on his head, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He lets go of Ray without any prompting.

“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” he says, suddenly so solemn he sounds like a different boy. “We were just messing around, I swear.”

“Look, I’m not interested,” Ray says. At this moment he can say for certain there is one tribute in this room he wants dead. That’s a whole lot better than how he felt yesterday. And if he has to listen to Barkovitch grovel that number will likely drop right back to zero.

Ray walks away.

On the final day they’re told to remain in the cafeteria after lunch. From there, one by one, they’ll be called into a private session with the Gamemakers. They’ll have about half an hour to show off their skills, after which the Gamemakers will judge their performance on a scale of one to twelve. One to three is considered incredibly poor, ten to twelve excellent. Most tributes tend to land in the five to eight range.

Ray knows, from talk around the District, that at his age his father scored an eleven. What he doesn’t know is how.

When Pete gets called Ray sits quietly with Collie and Curly, until a soldier calls out his own name. He enters the presentation room to the instructions, “You may use anything in the room to impress the Gamemakers. You have half an hour.” It’s filled with all kinds of weapons and survival kit. Ray’s plan is to throw a couple of axes and maybe scrape a seven. His training score doesn’t matter to him.

Or at least he didn’t think it did until he sees the row of men - they’re all men - in their military regalia, staring down at him. Waiting for him to show them just how interesting they can make his death. How many of these same men watched his father all those years ago? Only one of them appears younger than forty. How many of them heard their golden-boy victor got squadded and cheered? Were they delighted to find out their Game had no victor after all? Were they delighted to see him here now?

Ray throws a couple of axes. Axe throwing is considered a light downtime activity for him and Jan. He always has a great arm and some power behind it, but today he hits the bullseye every time, the axe sticking a good few inches into the wood. Adrenaline is a powerful drug.

He’s probably pulled himself at least an eight with that, but that’s not the goal here. He wants to show them he has some small semblance of power.

His eyes fall on one of the soldiers, standing guard by the door, and he considers enlisting them into some sort of dangerous play. But what would these people care if he endangered a soldier in front of them? They might even enjoy it.

Anything in the room…

Ray approaches the soldier. They’re equipped with a carbine, slung across their back. Ray moves to take it. The soldier flinches, but a hand gesture from up on the observation platform tells them to stand down. Ray slips the gun from their shoulders.

It’s heavy. He knows from reading adventure novels that when he fires it it’ll kick back into his shoulder; he’ll have to be prepared. He’s never fired a gun before, but the very fact that he’s managed to wrestle it off the soldier is already a small victory.

He begins to head towards the target dummies - he’s confident he can make a body shot, even if it’s just the shoulder - when something pulls him up short. The perfect target. Behind the Gamemakers is a poster of the Major. A conscription poster, encouraging Capitol citizens to enlist their teens in the army.

It’s a long shot. And if he misses he’s a dead man for certain. But isn’t he a dead man anyway?

Ray levels the gun, peering through the scope and lining up what he hopes will be a clean shot. The air is so thick with silence he can’t even breathe.

He fires.

A shocking crack rings out. Ray had braced himself against the kickback, but it still wretches his shoulder, causing him to stumble. He rights himself and peers up at the balcony.

Call it beginner's luck; something Ray was unacquainted with until this moment. His shot didn’t burn through the centre of the Major’s forehead like he had intended. Instead it singed straight through one of his mirrored lenses.

“Well.” Ray places the gun gently down on the ground. “Thanks, I guess.”

Then he walks out of the room.

Chapter Text

At first Ray feels elated. How could he have possibly done a better job? Succeeded in his own personal little revenge mission and shown off an impressive skill he didn’t know he had.

But by the time he reaches the elevator that feeling is fading fast. What did he do, really? Threaten the Gamemakers. Show proficiency with a weapon he can’t take into the arena. What if they think he was secretly trading arms back in 8? What if they search his room and find his axe and arrest his mother? What if they don’t search his room but arrest his mother anyway, for his open show of defiance? What if they execute her publicly? What if they question Jan and she lets slip one of the terrible but honest things she’s always saying about this country and then they–

Ray tries to stop thinking about it, but he can’t. How could he have been so stupid? For the past few days it’s felt as if he’s been living in a different world. He’d been so caught up in his own death he’d forgotten that this process, these Games, aren’t for him. They’re for the people back home. So that they suffer, too.

He’s crying by the time the elevator doors open and when he catches sight of William he can’t help it. He takes two rushed steps into his arms and breaks down.

“Oh–” While his face shows his discomfort, William doesn’t hesitate to wrap him in a hug. “What happened, what’s wrong?”

The words may be different, but this is exactly how Ray’s father used to hold him as a child. 

“I did something so stupid, I’m so sorry,” Ray sobs into William’s shoulder. He hasn’t cried in years. The apartment is too small, his mother would always know, and he couldn’t have that. The woods feel too exposed. He can’t explain it, but it’s hard to cry when a tree’s watching you.

He’d almost forgotten the sensation of it, the horrible tightness in his chest as he struggles to breath. His face aches from grimacing.

“Is he okay?” Ray hears Pete ask.

Oh god, Pete! Pete’s family, Pete’s sister. They’re meant to be a team, that’s how they’ve been presenting themselves since they arrived here. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to them.

He can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed about crying. He has something much, much worse to be ashamed of.

“You.” William clicks his fingers in Pete’s general direction. “... Other one, go to your room.”

“I was just asking–”

“Go, go away. I’ll call you out for dinner.”

“Fuck. Fine.” Pete slinks off.

“Come here.” William leads Ray over to the seating area and sits him down. He’s just about managed to get his crying under control, but when he looks up at William’s concerned face he can’t help but think, ‘I wonder if I would have disappointed my father,’ and bursts into another round of sobs.

“Look…” William pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just tell me what you did, kid. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.”

Ray takes a deep breath, tries not to choke on his own spit. He’s afraid to tell William, because what if he decides it is that bad? What if it’s that bad and then a whole lot worse?

Ray spots William’s hip flask on the table. He looks up at William, then reaches for it. His hand is instantly smacked away.

“That’s a bad idea. Especially for you.”

Especially for me? Especially for you! Ray thinks. But that wouldn’t come out right while he’s still crying. 

He grits his teeth and looks down at his shoes.

“I shot the Major.”

“What?!”

“I shot a picture. Of the Major.”

“With a gun?” Ray nods. “I didn’t know you knew how to use a gun.”

“It’s not hard. Turns out.” Ray clasps his hands together. Squeezes until it hurts. “What are they going to do to me? Or my family? Or Pete’s?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s the Capitol, in two days they’re going to kill twenty three children on live television for entertainment. They’re going to do something to me.”

“Yeah. They're going to make you fight a bunch of children to the death on live television in two days.”

Ray wants to bristle at his no-nonsense approach, but it is helping. No one’s talked him down like this in a while. In seven years.

“But what about my mom?”

“They can’t just make her disappear. She has friends, colleagues, neighbours. And there’s no way they’re going to explain to everyone that Mrs Garraty has to be locked up because her son used a gun in his training session.”

Training sessions are private. It builds suspense for the audience, as well as being seen as a point of pride for the Gamemakers to have seen the tributes’ skills first.

“Okay,” Ray says, even though he knows deep down that they can just make her disappear, if they want to.

“What did they look like when you shot that gun?” William asks. Ray tries to get a sense of his tone. He should be disappointed. He should be disgusted that Ray would dare do something like this in opposition to his dearly beloved Capitol. But he sounds… not proud, exactly, but entertained. 

“They just sort of stood there. Really still. And then, I don’t know. I walked off.”

A huge laugh bubbles up from William’s throat. “You didn’t wait for them to dismiss you?”

Dread settles at the bottom of Ray's stomach, like he’s just answered a question wrong in class. “You’re supposed to be dismissed?”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” He claps him on the shoulder. “Go clean up. Go eat dinner. You’ll be fine.”

Ray takes a long, hot shower then dresses in a plain shirt and pants, grateful to be saying goodbye to the army-look. He eats a bowl of some kind of thin, cooked dough strips in tomato sauce and almost an entire loaf of warm bread buttered with herbs. Pete side eyes him the entire time, but doesn’t push for conversation. When they sit down in front of the television to see the results of the private session Ray realises he hasn’t asked Pete how his went, but it’s too late now.

A presenter talks into an ornate microphone whilst images of the tributes flash up on the screen followed, after a brief recap on who they are, by their training score. The Conscripts generally land an eight or nine, with only Stebbins standing out with his ten. Not hard to imagine how he earned that. Most tributes earn a five or six - completely average. Pete gets a nine.

“Yes!” He punches the air. This is the first time Ray has seen him acknowledge his prowess in any way. 

“Congrats,” he says. “What’d you do?”

Pete shrugs. “Never you mind.”

Ray feels a little affronted at that. But maybe Pete’s finally come around to what Ray’s been thinking for the past three days: they can’t be friends, not really. 

There’s no time to dwell on it, however, as next they’re flashing up a picture of Ray and revealing that he scored an eleven. An eleven?

It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare. An extremely impressive tribute, as Stebbins just demonstrated, can manage a ten. An eleven…

“They must’ve been impressed,” he admits, mostly to himself.

“Or they want a target on your back.” William had been drinking heavily throughout dinner and his tone has lost the softness it managed to cling to earlier in the day. Ray doesn’t bother engaging with him. After his interference with Barkovitch he’s certain the Conscripts will be after him anyway. At least now they might have an air of trepidation.

Pete congratulates him and they continue watching. More sixes. Collie also pulls a nine, and little Curly manages a seven.

When the screen fades to black Ray excuses himself, feeling suddenly exhausted. Pete hangs back. Ray can hear him talking quietly with William, but whatever pointers he’s so graciously dishing out for tomorrow can wait.

Ray collapses into bed and stares out the window at the twinkling lights of the Capitol buildings. The next thing he knows he’s looking out at a purple morning sky. The sun must be rising, on the other side of the building. He must have slept, he feels well rested, but it was a desolate and dreamless sleep.

It’s Sunday today, a half day for the factories back home. Around this time he and Jan would usually be heading out into the woods. He wonders if she’s going today.

Today is reserved for interview prep, with interviews being held tonight. What Ray wouldn’t give to have Jan here with him, telling him what to say. Of course, he doesn’t really want her here. That would be awful. But it’s nice to have a partner you know you can trust, unlike Pete, who might go crazy if Ray dies or might even kill him himself.

He and Jan were childhood friends. Since they both had younger siblings about the same age their mothers struck up a conversation out in the yard on their first day of school. He sat next to Jan during orientation and, both being confident, chatty kids, they’d fallen in with the popular crowd. For the next seven years Jan was always around, and they spoke almost daily, but it was never about anything particularly deep.

When Ray’s father got taken away and he decided to distance himself from everyone, Jan didn’t make any attempt to reach out. He doesn’t blame her for it, she was ten. Over the next year Ray learned how to care for his brother, how to wash his own clothes, how to fix bikes and mend shoes so he could do odd jobs in town. He was responsible for shopping, and lighting a fire to cook on, and cooking. Between the ages of eleven and twelve, Ray became an adult. And, in his mind, Jan was still a child. 

So he was surprised to see her in The Button Hole one day. He was trying to trade some berries for meat and felt he was getting taken advantage of, but didn’t know how to argue his way out. Suddenly Jan, taller, more broad-shouldered than he remembered her being, was leaning over the table and peering into his burlap. 

“That’s a steal,” she said to the stall owner. “Bring them back to my house, I’ll give you ten sausages for that. They’re good butcher meat, too.”

Ray went to ask her what she was doing, but the stall owner jumped in. “Ten is crazy. Six, maybe.” She was only going to give him three before.

“Eesh.” Jan pulled a face. “At least split the difference. Seven, and a drumstick.”

The stall owner grumbled, but ultimately wrapped up seven sausages and handed them to Ray. Jan took the drumstick for herself. 

They walked around the stalls a little before he worked up the courage to ask, “What was that for?”

She shrugged. “Seemed like you needed the help.”

“I didn't,” Ray snapped, but Jan was unfazed. 

The next weekend she was waiting outside The Button Hole for him. The weekend after that she was waiting by the fence - that was the first time he took her out into the woods. They started sitting together at school again, in class and at lunch. Ray told her about his father being squadded, about his brother being sick, how he was basically invisible to his mother. Jan, without him realising, had grown up a lot too. She had ideas about the country, about the world, that it seemed their peers didn’t look too favourably on. She could still hang out with their old crowd, she explained, but she wanted to spend time with people she could talk to. And those “people” were Ray.

Soon they were sharing money and supplies as well as secrets. He taught her to fish. She taught him snares. Somewhere down the line she became more than his only friend; she was family. 

She’d be proud, he thinks, of the stunt he pulled last night.

Ray makes himself get up. Takes another shower - why not? - and heads out into the dining area. He’s pleased to see Art sitting at the table, and Pete’s stylist, but when he looks up at Ray he looks distinctly upset. Not as upset as Pete, who for the second time since their arrival is busy finding his plate fascinating. 

“What’s up?” Ray asks.

William waves him over. “Come grab something to eat, we’ll get started in a bit. Interview prep is just as important as training, if not more so–”

Ray interrupts him. “Why are you all… like that?”

“It’s not a big deal,” William says. His voice is still slurring slightly. Must have had a late night. “Happens all the time. But Pete has asked if you can be trained separately.”

Chapter Text

“Bullshit!” Ray doesn’t know why that gets his hackles up, but it does. They can't be friends, he’d made peace with that. But couldn’t Pete at least wait until they were in the arena to stab him in the back?

“It’s not personal,” Pete says, but he refuses to look at Ray.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s not about you,” he snaps. “Not everything’s about you.” He gets up in an attempt to storm off, but to do so he’d have to walk past Ray. He huffs and heads for the other corridor, where William’s room is. “I’ll be in the spare room,” he shouts over his shoulder. He doesn’t slam the door. Ray would’ve.

William raises his eyebrows at Ray, then pushes himself into a standing position. “Surprised it took you so long. Stick two teenagers together and usually they have a falling out on the train ride over here.

“You go with Art, get your costume ready. I’m going to teach Pete how to use his words.”

Ray sits down at the table with Art and, awkwardly, Pete’s stylist. He serves himself a bowl of sweet porridge and hopes no one tries to make conversation. He’s not so lucky.

“You ever had your heart broken?” Art asks. “Romantically, I mean.”

Ray squirms. “You calling me a virgin, Art?”

“I’m sure plenty virgins have had their hearts broken.” True. Ray’s peers got into dating around the time he got out of having friends. Most kids had had their first heartbreak by thirteen. Aside from his one impulsive and decidedly childish kiss with Jimmy he has zero romantic experience. Even then, he’d like the thought of kissing a boy more than he’d liked the thought of kissing Jimmy. He hadn’t really liked kissing Jimmy at all. Hence the slap. Though he’d be lying if he said that wasn’t also partly out of shame.

Living in District 8, he’d come to the conclusion that romance isn’t really worth it. Date a boy and you’re shunned. Date a girl and you end up married with kids who will one day be reaped for the Hunger Games. It’s a lose lose scenario.

“Well, not this one,” Ray says. He realises that didn’t sound as cool out loud as it had in his head.

Art continues, “You got a girl back home?” 

“No.” Ray shakes his head. “Or, yeah, I guess, I do have a girl. She’s, like, my girl, in the same way I’m her guy. But it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Something about him echoing Pete’s words makes Ray feel hot and uncomfortable.

“I don’t know. She’s like family to me.”

Art and Pete’s stylist make eye contact, a two second conversation Ray can’t understand. 

“What do you think of Pete?” Art asks.

This would have been a much more straightforward question a day ago. Two minutes ago, even. “I can’t work him out,” Ray says.

This causes Art to smirk, but Ray can’t figure out why. “Sounds like you do have a girl, then.”

Ray’s relieved when he and Art retreat to his room for costume alterations. 

“You’re into baseball, right?” Art asks him out of the blue.

“I mean, I played.” When he was younger Ray had played baseball with the other boys after school. As he grew older he only played during school hours. He was good - is good - and his classmates would always beg him to play for their “teams” after school. But he never went.

“What do you know about its history?”

Ray offers him a blank expression. If baseball has a history, he doesn’t know it.

“As a sport, I mean. When it used to be played professionally,” Art clarifies.

“I’ve seen some pictures. But that was forever ago, it’s more of a yard game to me.”

Art pulls his garment from the bag and holds it up to Ray. “So, you wouldn’t recognise this?”

Complete with a helmet, Art has recreated a vintage baseball player's kit. It has his surname and the number forty seven on the back. He doesn’t get the significance, if there is any, but he appreciates the attention to detail. 

“That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.

“I want them to see what they’ve robbed you of.” Art’s tone cools off significantly. “Not just in the reaping, but with the state of this whole country. You grow up, you get reaped, you die in the Games. You grow up, you work in the factory, you lose an arm, you lose your job, you die. We ain’t living, any of us.”

It’s powerful stuff. And to the Capitol he’ll just look like a little boy playing dress up. An especially little boy, he notes, as he hasn’t had to shave all week. That must’ve been what the injection was for. He wonders if that’s permanent. Without stubble he has a very round, boyish face.

“No macabre twist this time?” Ray asks as Art starts taking up his pants.

Art grins. “Of course. But save it for the big reveal.”

At midday Ray chooses to eat in his room with Art. When it’s time for him to swap over and spend some time with William he manages to cross the living room in record time, spending a grand total of five seconds in Pete’s company.

For what it’s worth, William seems in decent spirits when he enters.

“What’d you and Pete talk about?” Ray asks, immediately souring the mood. “He tell you his plans for taking me out in the arena?”

William doesn’t answer. He watches as Ray sits down on the bed, then just considers him. At first Ray gives as good as he gets staring back, but eventually the eye contact is overwhelming and he shrinks into himself a little. What does this silence mean? Is he really that hopeless?

“I’m trying to figure you out, kid,” he finally says. “You’re kind, but god what a temper. So careful with your words, too careful almost, but impulsive with your actions. You’re not ashamed of yourself, but you’re insecure.”

Ray goes to snap back, then hesitates, then hates himself for hesitating. Ugh. It’s almost like this guy is his dad. Almost. 

“Let’s try some questions out, see how you react. Maybe we can boil all that complexity down into a neat little package for the audience.” William gestures for Ray to sit up straighter. “Welcome to the Capitol, Ray. Long way from home. How are you finding the food here?”

Ray jumps in almost instantly. “Don’t ask me that!” 

“Why not?” 

“Would you ask Pete that? No, probably not. So don’t ask me.”

William grits his teeth. “Hot headed, won’t say what you mean, insecure.” He takes a swig from a small glass on the table beside him. “Let’s try that again.”

He asks Ray about the weather, and Ray responds with stunning apathy.

He asks about District 8, at which Ray clams up completely.

William gives him a hundred different personas to play - strong, flirty, humble, mysterious - and Ray fails miserably at all of them. Even when instructed to just give monosyllabic answers Ray seems to end up frustrated and ranting. 

William fetched a new bottle somewhere around flirty and now a mean edge cuts into his voice.

“You know what?” He says. “Fine. Fine. Go ahead, be yourself. Don’t listen to anything I say. Tell me, Raymond Garraty, what’s your strategy going to be for the Games?”

“Try not to die a slow and painful death so my mother doesn’t have to see me suffer.”

“Oh no, your poor mother.” It takes everything Ray has not to be at his throat. “Speaking of parents, how does it feel, being mentored by your dear father?”

A horrible chill seizes Ray’s throat and he finds himself unable to breathe. “You know?”

“It’s unavoidable. All everyone’s been saying since we arrived here. ‘Mr Garraty, how unlucky, having to mentor your own son’. A part of me always suspected, but I didn’t think they’d– How could they–”

He’s starting to get upset, but the chill in Ray’s throat evaporates into a steaming ball of fury, now hot and heavy on his windpipe. “Do not fucking do this to me,” he says, trying so hard not to let his voice break.

“Do what?”

“You had fucking– I’m going to die in just a few days– You had nine years to figure this shit out, you could have tried– And now you’re going to dump all this on me the day before I go to my death, fuck you.”

Ray tries to storm out, but William blocks his path. “You don’t understand.” He grabs at Ray’s shirt, but he yanks it away. “What they do to you it’s, it’s so all consuming.” A hand reaches up for Ray’s face, though it never makes contact. “I wish I could remember you, but I can’t. I can't”

Ray bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. Just five seconds, he tells himself, five seconds and he can go to his room and cry.

“You’re not my dad,” he says. “You’re just some military propaganda parroting freak.”

Five seconds.

Ray crosses the room, enters his bedroom, and slams the door.

Immediately he breaks down into tears. How could he– But, then again, how could he not? Is it really so selfish to want to say a final goodbye to your son?

Through his tears, Ray suddenly realises he’s being watched. The blond Avox is kneeling on the floor, picking up offcuts from Art’s earlier alterations.

Ray wipes his face. “Will you just fuck off? Please? I just want to– Fuck.” His legs give in and he slides his back down the wall. At least when I die, he thinks, I’ll never have to feel this awful again.

Something rustles by his head and he looks up to see the ex-soldier offering him a handful of tissues. This small gesture is too much, and Ray breaks into a new round of sobs.

“I should’ve tried to help you,” he cries, burying his face in his arms. “I’m sorry.”

The man taps him on the arm, then shakes his head.

“No, I should’ve. I don’t know, I–”

He shakes his head again. He touches a hand to his lips, then gently touches Ray’s cheek. His way of conveying that if Ray intervened he would have met his fate or worse.

He sits with Ray until he’s cried himself out, then quietly continues tidying up the floor and leaves. Ray gets the impression he may not be quite as excited to watch Ray die as he’d previously thought. But now, one day away from entering the arena, that thought is no longer such a comfort.

Thousands of others will cheer to see his blood shed.

Before Art returns to help dress him, Ray cleans himself up a bit. Art ends up applying powder to his cheeks to tone down the redness.

“I’m going to be awful,” he confides. “William has no faith in me.”

“Who needs faith?” Art scoffs. “And who needs it from William? Just talk, be yourself.”

“To hear him say it, I have no self.”

“That’s not true. I like you.” This would all be so much easier if Art was the one interviewing him. “How about this: imagine you’re talking to your girl. The one who’s not really your girl.”

“No.” Ray shakes his head. “She hates all this crap. So do I, that’s the problem.”

“Then… Imagine you’re talking to me. Honest, but guarded. Friendly, but like somebody’s watching you. How does that sound?”

After today Ray will take anything, so he agrees to find Art in the crowd and try to direct his answers to him whenever possible. 

Once he’s dressed he meets up with Pete outside the elevator. Again, Pete’s eyes are anywhere but on Ray, despite the fact that he compliments his outfit. Pete looks spectacular, dressed in suede pants, a chequered shirt, and a leather jacket, complete with cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and a guitar.

“Wanted to be a songwriter. Once,” he mumbles by way of explanation.

Unsurprisingly, William doesn’t make an appearance.

The elevator doors open, depositing them in a space beneath the stage where the other tributes are lining up. Interviews take place in District order, so once again Ray will be placed somewhere in the middle, utterly forgettable. And he doesn’t have another gun trick up his sleeve.

They’re marched onto the stage, where they curve into a large semi-circle around the interview chair. The audience is huge, stretching as far back as he can see. Everyone wants to watch him be strong, flirty, humble, mysterious. Well, won’t they be disappointed. 

An interviewer steps up onto the stage. The crowd goes wild, but Ray has never understood why. It’s a different person each year. He’s always assumed they get taken out back and shot like a dog after each Games. But maybe they’re all famous, here in the Capitol.

This new interviewer introduces himself, then calls down the District 1 girl. Like Barkovitch, she comes across as a little unhinged, a little too blood thirsty. Stebbins is stoic and enigmatic. Hank is snarky and cool. 

Ray still feels utterly unprepared by the time his name is called. It’s just talking, Ray, he tells himself. You can talk. Only it’s not just talking; it’s just lying. He’s grateful that the visor to his baseball helmet obscures his face a little. The interviewer shakes his hand, then he’s sitting down beside him, just looking at him. Has he asked a question yet? No. No?

“So, Ray.” Okay, alright, now he’s talking. “Pretty different from District 8. How are you liking the Capitol?”

He’s asked all the tributes some variation on this question. Barkovitch mentioned being able to form allegiances with other Conscripts. The District 3 boy said he found it all very daunting. But he’s a waif of a boy and at just fourteen can get away with an answer like that. Ray would sound at best like a coward and at worst like a rebel. Unfortunately, he rather suspects he’s both.

“I like. The food,” he manages to get out. Great.

The crowd bursts into laughter. Ray feels like they’re laughing at him more than anything and instinctively crosses his arms. He can just hear William shouting, ‘Defensive! Insecure!’

The interviewer tries– “Good strategy! It’s the Hunger Games, after all.” – and fails to make the best of his nothing answer. What strategy? Consuming the daily caloric requirement to keep him alive?

Ray tries not to let his annoyance show on his face, but suddenly his cleats are very interesting. The interviewer seems to sense he’s frustrated and tries to shift gears. “I must say, your outfit during the parade was something else. We’ve never seen costuming like that for the games. How did you feel?”

Find Art, be honest, Ray instructs himself. He scans the front row of the crowd, where seats have been reserved for prestigious individuals. There’s Art, sitting with Pete’s stylist.

“Honestly? I’ve felt a little like a dead man walking since my name was drawn. It was comfortable to be able to lean into that a bit. Make a statement as well as looking good.” Art smiles at him.

“And what statement would that be?”

Ray knows he has to choose his next words carefully. “That this is a tradition. And we should honour those who came before us.” The crowd and the interviewer seem satisfied with this. 

“You also look very smart this evening. I didn’t know you had baseball in the Districts.”

“Not officially,” Ray says. “But we still play.”

“You good?”

Does it matter? Ray thinks. Does it fucking matter? “I’m alright. There’s actually a little more to this outfit, too. If you want to see?”

Ray takes the uproar from the audience as a yes, and proceeds to carefully remove his helmet. For the first time he tilts his face into the light, showing off the blood dripping down his face from a nasty, fake bullet wound in his forehead. At first the crowd is shocked into silence, but then they break out into rapturous applause. Just a little preview of what’s to come, Ray thinks.

When they’ve finally calmed down again, the interviewer comes in with his final question. “Our time is almost up, but I’ve got to mention–” Oh god, Ray thinks, this is where he asks about my father. “That eleven you got in your private session; very impressive.” Phew. “If I recall correctly, that’s the same score your father received eighteen years ago.” Fuck. “What’s it like, preparing for the Games with your estranged father?”

Estranged? That’s one way to put it. Ray doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction, however. Someone in this room will know what really happened to his father. And he refuses to let them see this get to him. “It’s an honour,” he says, “to have such a knowledgeable mentor. Honestly, this experience has brought us closer than we have been in years. If I die tomorrow, I’m grateful to have had this time with him.” And when I die tomorrow, Ray muses to himself, I hope the fucker drinks himself to death.

“How touching.” The interviewer is given a signal to move on. He thanks Ray for his time, they shake hands, he makes his wobbly way back to his seat. He passes Pete on the way, who still can’t seem to look at him. What about when I’m dead, Ray wonders. Will he bear to look at me then?

From the get-go it’s clear Pete’s angle is charming. He waxes poetic about high speed trains and how they allow you to see in two minutes what most won’t see in a lifetime. Then the interviewer asks him about Katrina, and he really gets to dazzle.

“She’s my baby sister,” he says. “She always will be. I’d die a million times over for her, that’s what big brothers ought to do.”

“You don’t think you’ll win?”

“I might,” Pete shrugs. “Odds aren’t on my side, but I might. That doesn’t matter though. I made this choice knowing that I could die. And that for her? I would.”

Even his costume reveal - cracking a capsule of blood in his mouth and allowing it to drip down his chin, onto his shirt - is laced with charm. He calls it a Romeo cosplay; painting himself as a tragic artist who commits suicide when he finds his lover dead.

This prompts the interviewer onto the topic of romance. “You got a lady, Pete?” He asks.

A small, sad, blink-and-you’d-miss-it smirk passes across Pete’s lips. “No, sir. No I don’t.”

That’s strange, Ray thinks, as Pete does have a girlfriend. They’ve been together as long as Ray can remember. But handsome tributes like Pete receive a lot of sponsors. Maybe he thinks the charm plays better if he’s a bachelor.

“Come on, handsome guy like you. There must be someone.”

Now it’s Pete’s turn to become fixated with the spurs on his cowboy boots. His face is a little flushed. Or maybe it’s just the fake blood. “Well, there is someone,” he says.

The audience ‘ooh’s.

“Then it’s settled!” The interviewer claps his hands together. “You win, you head back to District 8, you win her over.”

Pete chuckles, a bitter little sound that catches in his throat. “Yeah it, it ain’t that simple. For me.”

The entire room, entire country, entire world holds their breath, all thinking one question: why?

After the question has hung in the air for a moment the interviewer snatches it and offers it to Pete: “Why?”

“Because…” Pete wrings his hands. “Because he came here with me.”

Chapter Text

The crowd erupts into screams. Ray can no longer make out individuals, they’re one giant, terrifying, undulating beast. Seeming a little apprehensive, Pete dismisses himself from the interview and makes his way back to his seat. Ray watches him walk, trying to figure out who he might have been talking about, until he catches sight of his own face on one of the large projector screens.

Was Pete talking about… him?

Quickly Ray’s face becomes so red it’s visible through the makeup. Him? He buries his face in his hands. Of all the lousy things Pete could have done to him… They’re pretty much guaranteed a gruesome death now. And zero sponsors. And say by some miracle he does make it home, what will Pete’s girlfriend say to him?

It takes a while for the crowd to calm down again. Even longer for Ray to claw himself out of his shock and focus back in on the interviews. Collie’s being strong, stoic, and monosyllabic. When he sits down Curly earns himself a round of ‘aww’s from the audience as he talks about how he’s going to make his little sisters proud. They seem well liked, this year’s District 12 pair, but it’s clear by the time they all stand for the bugle that Pete has blown everyone else out of the water. This is illustrated by the fact that screens only show a cursory second of every other pair of tributes, but lock on Ray and Pete for what seems like an eternity.

At least Pete has the decency to look ashamed.

Once they’re dismissed and told to head back to their quarters Ray jams himself into an elevator with Pete, smashing the ‘close doors’ button before anyone else can get in.

“What the fuck was that?” He explodes. “Is that the strategy you worked out with William? How will this help you? At all?”

“It won’t–” Pete started.

“I didn’t– My friends and family will have been watching that, what will they think?” What friends and family? The small, rational voice at the back of Ray’s head asks. He bashes it violently with his outrage.

“Probably that I’m some perv with a thing for disillusioned red heads, what does it matter? I said, this ain't about you.”

They spill out onto the eighth floor, but Ray grabs hold of Pete before he can rush off to his room. Realising he’s probably gripping his arm quite hard he loosens his grasp, but doesn’t let go.

“You don’t have to worry about your girlfriend,” Pete adds. He snatches his arm back from Ray, but doesn’t make another move to run off. “You never said you liked me.”

“Girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend, you have a girlfriend! What will she think?”

Ray becomes aware that William is watching them from the dining table. Ray becomes very aware that he hasn’t exactly presented himself as the most stable individual today. He wonders if William sees this all the time, seemingly rational kids breaking down at the prospect of death. He can’t blame them, really.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, man,” Pete snaps. “I’m gay, I like boys.”

That pulls Ray up. He realises he hasn’t taken a deep breath in close to half an hour and does so now. “What?” All the fury has ebbed from his voice. Is there a chance that Pete really does just… like him? “But what about…” He wracks his brain for a name. “Priscilla?”

“Priscilla? She’s my neighbour, we grew up together.”

“But you…” But they what? Now that he thinks about it, Ray hasn’t seen them do much more than stand next to each other. By that logic, he and Jan are basically married. “You really like me?” He asks.

“You know–” Pete smiles a little. “You know when you’re at work in the factory, and it’s raining outside? All that water hammering down on the sheet metal roof, it’s deafening. And you’re doing hard, heavy labour, bent over your station, jammed like sardines next to some other teenager? It’s dim and it’s dark and you’re so sure this is the day you’re going to lose a finger.

“But then suddenly the rain stops. And your shift is over. And you go outside and see a rainbow.” He looks at Ray. “You know?”

“I guess.” Ray can’t say he’s ever experienced that exact sequence of events in that exact order, but he gets the gist of what Pete is talking about.

“The rainbow will disappear. And tomorrow you’ll have to go back to work. And it’ll probably rain. But in that moment? It’s beautiful just to enjoy it.”

Pete turns and walks into his room. Ray lets him go. He watches his door for a moment. A small, stupid part of him pictures Pete running back out and kissing him. But that won’t happen. He didn’t even get a straight answer to whether Pete actually likes him or whether it’s all part of his game plan.

Solemnly, Ray makes his way over to sit at the dining table with William.

“You put him up to that?” He asks half-heartedly. 

“No.”

“Then why would he say that?”

“It’s… compelling. Love is compelling. Think about the tragic story they could spin if one of you wins. Like an Orpheus and Eurydice story, one of you stumbling out of the underworld. People will pay good money for that, and that money will keep you alive. He might have just given one of you an edge.” William looks him up and down. “Especially if you like him, too.”

He doesn’t. Does he? He doesn’t. Pete is attractive, but that’s objective. He’s brave in a way that makes Ray catch his breath, but who doesn’t admire bravery? He’s also stubborn and confusing. Ray isn’t attracted to him.

But, to hear William tell it, Pete isn’t attracted to him. So maybe he doesn’t have to be.

“Do you think, from the way I reacted, that maybe I could?” He asks.

“Sure. You were blushing, you hid your face. Classic kids in love stuff.”

Okay, Ray thinks, I’ll remember to be in love with Pete. Whatever that means, in the context of the arena. 

He wants to apologise for shouting at William earlier, but his pride holds him back. While his desire to give an apology is genuine, he doesn’t think he should be the first one to apologise. So they eat in silence, without Pete who remains in his room. Every time nerves get the better of him and he puts his spoon down Ray reminds himself that tomorrow he’ll be in unknown terrain, fending for himself, and picks it back up again.

He and William begin to watch the interview recap, but he forces William to turn it off before they get to his interview. He can’t go through that again. William offers him the same advice he's been drilling into them since training: avoid the Barracks, find water, survive. Then there’s nothing else to do, nothing else to say, so he excuses himself to bed.

“Wait.” William follows him a few steps, but still stands a safe distance away. “I want to apologise for today.”

Ray waits patiently for his apology. It doesn’t come.

“But I can’t,” he says eventually. “It was messy and it was wrong but if you gave me a hundred more chances I’d do the same thing every time. I might not be your dad, but you’re my son, and– Losing you would be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And I’ve already lost everything. So stay alive.”

Tears threaten to drip from Ray’s eyes. Lost everything, he thinks, you have no idea how true that is. 

“What about Pete?” He says, feigning tiredness to wipe his eyes. “You have to look out for Pete.”

Between Pete pulling away from him and the stunt he just pulled, Ray no longer feels so inclined to put himself in harm’s way for Pete’s sake. If he ever would have to begin with; loyalty only goes so far in the face of death. But someone has to win, and he knows it won’t be him. So it may as well be Pete.

“I will,” William assures him. “I told you I’d do my job and I will, I’m going to try to get one of you home. No bias, I swear. But if it’s you… promise me you’ll fill me in? On everything I missed?”

Ray has no problem agreeing to this promise. He knows he’ll never have to follow through. “Yeah,” he says. “I will.” He offers William a handshake and it seems it’s more than he ever could have hoped for as he clasps Ray’s hand eagerly. A gentle squeeze, a soft smile, and then Ray’s turning away and walking to his room. A pleasant enough parting. If only he’d been granted such a liberty with his father.

Ray dresses in a pair of soft sleep pants and a top and lies down on the bed. He lies on his side, staring out at the city. Then on his other side, gazing into the gloom inside the en suite. He tries lying on his front, face smushed into the pillow. Then, his last hail mary, on his back with his arms crossed over his chest. His brother always thought it was creepy he could sleep like that, but he’s always found it comforting. Unsurprisingly, though, tonight it brings him no such comfort.

After a few hours of tossing and turning he decides to get up for some air. The balcony door is ajar and when he steps out he sees Pete, looking out over the city. He doesn’t seem to have heard him, Ray could still sneak away and go back to bed, or even to use the other balcony door. 

He takes a step forward and leans on the railing, so that his elbow is touching Pete’s.

“You should be asleep,” he says.

“What, and miss the party?” Ray looks down to where Pete’s eyes are fixed: hundreds of people swarm the streets, playing music and dancing. “It’s for us. Apparently.” 

They watch the squirming figures for a while, neither of them saying a word. Are there any words left to say? Maybe that’s the last time they’ll ever speak.

“What do you think it’s like?”

Ray’s eyes snap open. He has no idea how long they’ve been standing there. Was he asleep? He can’t tell. That’s not a good sign.

“The arena?” He asks, only then realising he may be responding to a dream.

“Death.”

Ray looks up at Pete. Pete’s looking at him.

“You’re not dying, Pete,” he says.

“Humour me.”

Ray’s thought about death a lot. More so, probably, than most boys their age. But that doesn’t mean his musings have gotten him anywhere. “I think,” he says carefully, “that death is nothing. It’s inconceivable. What I think matters, really, is your final moments. Honestly, I can’t think of anything that matters more.”

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” Pete replies. “About how when I die, I want to still be me, do you know what I’m saying?”

Ray remains silent. He isn’t even completely sure he’s himself right now. One week away from District 8 and he feels like a different person entirely. He does think, sometimes, about the life he could have had if his father hadn’t been taken away. He wasn’t supposed to turn out like that. He’ll never know who he should have been.

“I’m not saying I won’t kill or anything," Pete continues when it’s clear Ray had nothing to add. “I’m sure if it comes down to it I will. But the choices I make, the way I go out - I want that to reflect who I am. I want people to see me, Peter McVries. Not just a tribute. Not just a killer.”

Ray can’t see how the loverboy act fits into all this, but he likes Pete’s words. “That’s very noble,” he says. Pete scoffs. “No, I mean it. I like that, in theory. But in practice… No matter how many times I tell myself I’m going to die I can’t quite believe it. I’m sure once I’m in that arena if they say jump I’ll say how high.”

“I don’t think you will. I don’t think you’re like that,” Pete says.

“And you know me so well?” ‘Defensive!’ He can hear William’s voice in his head. God, when did he get so defensive? About seven years ago, probably. Or seven days.

“I like to think I do, Ray.”

Ray takes a long, long look at Peter McVries. His close-cropped hair. His soft, brown eyes. The scar along his cheek. His lips, pursed and musing. His broad shoulders and bare, muscular arms. The way he has one foot crossed over the other as he leans against the railing. The warmth Ray feels just from looking at him. He tries to take it all in and remember it, because when he says goodnight to Pete and turns around to head inside he’s very aware that that may be the last time he ever sees him.

For the next couple of hours Ray doses, and when dawn comes so does Art. They don’t talk. Art takes him - still in his pyjamas, looking every bit the little boy evacuee - up to the roof and into a helicopter. Hovercrafts aren’t wasted on the tributes. Inside the windows are blacked out, but in the dull glow of a small bulb a soldier injects a tracker into his left arm.

Their journey lasts about half an hour before they touch down in a hangar. Art escorts him into his own private room beneath the stage. In the Capitol it’s called the Launch room, but in the Districts they call it the Trenches. Ray’s heard a rumour that Capitol citizens visit old arenas, touring places like the Trenches and the Barracks - a stone, castle-like structure at the centre of each arena, piled high with weapons and supplies - and sometimes even reenacting deaths. But he doesn’t know if he believes that. It just sounds too barbaric, he thinks, as Art helps prepare him for slaughter.

He showers and brushes his teeth - for the last time, he can’t help but think - and Art helps him with his outfit. Every tribute will be dressed identically, in the interest of fairness. Outfits usually reflect the terrain, so he should get an idea of what he’s heading into. This year’s outfit, however, disgusts him.

Khaki pants. A starched, brown shirt. An army jacket. He looks like he’s being shipped off to war. In the arena together they’ll look like a little platoon.

“Warm jacket,” Art says. “Expect temperatures to drop at night. Not waterproof, though. Showers, maybe. Rough terrain, or maybe just lots of terrain. Expect to be clambering or else expect to walk.”

Okay, Ray thinks, that I can do.

Finally Art tosses him his baseball. He holds it in his hands for a moment, then stashes it in his coat pocket.

The minutes creep by. Although he feels deeply sick, Ray eats half a cheese sandwich and sips a glass of water. He can’t count the number of times he’s watched a tribute starve to death. That won’t be him, if he can help it.

Eventually a buzzer alerts him that it’s time to go. There’s a tubular platform that will raise him up into the arena. Art walks him over.

“Good luck,” he says simply.

Ray can’t bring himself to say anything. He knows how to be afraid. Of the soldiers. For his family. Even for his life. But he’s never felt fear like this. It’s like when he tries to turn the TV on but there’s nothing airing - static. His entire body is being kept upright solely by static.

“And remember, I did mean what I said. I really think you can win.”

Ray gives a nod of thanks. He just has to trust that Art understands he’s grateful.

The tube closes around him, cutting him off from Art, and Ray forces himself to stand straight. Not just for optics; once they enter the arena a minute-long timer will count down. For this time, they’re not allowed to step from their pedestal. If they do, a land mine will blow them sky high.

A quick ending, sure, but not a dignified one.

The platform’s rising now. He takes one last look at Art, then lifts his chin. A warm breeze tousles his hair. It’s too bright to see at first, but his eyes quickly adjust. He’s facing outwards, away from the Barracks, and into a dry field. In the distance there are some squat, dilapidated structures, and even further afield a mountain. He turns a little and sees, a short distance away, a woods. Turns again and, yes, there’s the Barracks. It has several entrances, so even though the tributes are spread around it in a circle, access is more or less fair. Behind it, Ray thinks he can make out a lake, or at least a pond.

There’s an eerie familiarity to the place. It’s not District 8, not even modelled after it, but the climate, the environment, even the broken-down houses… Ray could do quite well here, with the right tools.

Low value items are scattered away from the Barracks, closer to the tributes. Ray follows a trail - metre of rope, plastic sheet, loaf of bread, small first aid kit, backpack, wood saw, machete - all the way up to the Barracks. There, something truly awful catches his eye.

Yes, he thinks, with the right equipment he could do very well here. Because, for the first time in Hunger Games history, there’s a gun in the Barracks.

Chapter Text

That's for me, Ray thinks, it has to be. Maybe not for him specifically, likely the Gamemakers just thought such a deadly weapon would heighten the action, but inspired by him at least. While he's convinced his poster-shot was pure luck - and it was, really - a weapon of that calibre would undoubtedly be an advantage. Even a misfire could cause some serious damage. On the other hand, firing a gun would instantly alert everyone hunting you to your location. 

He's busy deliberating over how much ammunition might be provided when he catches sight of Pete. He's a few podiums over and staring intently at Ray. Realising Ray’s now looking back at him, he mouths something. Ray frowns. He mouths again. Ray goes to shake his head in confusion but their silent conversation is broken up by the crack of a cannon.

Damn! He was distracted! Their minute is up.

Everyone moves at once, either towards the Barracks or away from them. Ray’s intention had been to run towards the wood, but he's dazed and pumped full of adrenaline. He finds himself stumbling towards the Barracks and only really comes to his senses about forty metres in. It’s another forty or so metres until he actually reaches the structure, but he can see that already tributes are securing weapons and engaging in combat.

Ray forces himself to stop and take stock. At this rate he’ll be dead before he gets his hands on any weapon, never mind something as coveted as a gun. As if to illustrate his point, a sharp bang emanates from the Barracks and the District 9 girl drops to the ground. He has to turn and run now.

But he's come this far. Ray looks around. Ten metres away is a backpack. He lunges for it, but it seems the District 11 girl has the same idea. Ready to let her win this one - she’s only fourteen after all - Ray pulls back, watching as the girl throws herself onto the bag. No, not throws herself - flops onto it. There's a knife sticking out the back of her skull.

Ray’s first instinct is to cover his eyes and turn away, but he pushes past that. She's dead. He's not. And that backpack might be the only thing to keep it that way.

Over at the Barracks he can see Barkovitch, a vest of knives draped over his shoulders. It's clear he's the one who got the girl. He starts to advance on Ray, which snaps him out of his haze. He snatches up the backpack and turns to sprint towards the woods.

To Ray’s surprise, no one else seems to be heading this way. He's tempted to turn back and observe the state of things when he feels a sharp pain in his ear and something lands next to his feet. He doesn't stop but paws at his ear; his hand comes away bloody. On instinct, he hikes the backpack up onto his back. Moments later he feels a soft thud as something sticks into it - undoubtedly one of Barkovitch’s knives. Ray lowers his head and lifts the backpack higher, giving himself as much coverage as possible, but he can hear someone calling Barkovitch back to the Barracks. Tomorrow he'll come after him, but for now there's too much ground to be gained in the fray.

It's about two hundred metres to the woods, an easy distance for Ray to cover, but by the time he reaches the treeline his lungs are already burning. Fear and adrenaline are eating away at his energy and he can barely catch his breath. Still, he presses on. Of course he does. The risk of running out of breath is minimal compared to the risk of death. Especially death at the hands of Barkovitch.

After close to fifteen minutes of flat out running Ray finally begins to cut his pace. He slows to a jog for ten or so minutes, then a fast walk, then eventually a slow but steady tread. He takes stock of his surroundings: the woods are sparse. At a distance they might offer some cover from a ranged weapon, but he's visible at least a hundred metres in any direction, often more. There's more coverage up in the canopy, where the branches of different trees intertwine, but Ray doesn't like his chances up that high. He's a proficient enough climber, but he's a heavyset guy; if they have the skill, any other tribute in the arena would be able to reach him, and where could he go from the top of a tree?

The lack of any genuine cover puts Ray ill at ease. He has a good head start, but that will be meaningless within a day or so if he can't find anywhere to rest. That's a concern for later, though. For now he feels like he could keep on walking forever, provided it means putting more distance between himself and the others.

After about another hour of walking he spots a pond and veers off towards it. The idea of stopping still fills him with dread, but who knows when he'll next encounter water? Plus, he wants to examine the backpack he almost risked his life for and make sure there's no serious damage to his ear.

He sits down and, after much deliberation, takes his shoes and socks off and dips his feet into the pond. He has enough scope from here to slip them back on if anyone's coming. No use burning out on day one.

Scooping up a handful of water, he washes the dried blood from his ear. The wound is no longer bleeding, and seems to be no more than a nick in his helix. All things considered, he got off incredibly easily.

Once he's relaxed, or as relaxed as he can get, Ray empties out his backpack. Matching with their outfits, it's in camo print. Inside is a sleeping bag, rations (three tubes of ration paste, a pack of crackers, and a tube of squeezable cheese), a spare pair of socks, a small coil of wire, and, blissfully, a canteen and a packet of iodine tablets. There's also a book, which Ray finds deeply offensive. Who has time for reading in the arena? He scans the cover - some kind of wilderness guide. Likely it would provide some form of useful information, had he been given it perhaps six months prior. As it stands it's just dead weight.

He almost decides to bury it or burn it, but ultimately doesn't. Who knows what the future will hold? He’ll keep the fucking book.

Stuffing it into the bottom of his bag, Ray fills his canteen with pond water and adds an iodine tablet. He doesn't remember the required wait time, but reckons it's close to an hour. He can wait. He also removes Barkovitch’s knife from the back of his pack. It's a tiny thing, two and a half inches, and sharp, not serrated. It won't do him much good in anything but close-combat, but he still tucks it up his sleeve. Right now it's his only weapon.

While he waits for his water to purify, Ray reconsiders his gameplan. Not that he had much of one to begin with. The lack of immediate danger means he doesn't have to die right now, even though he knows he will die eventually. He hasn't killed anyone himself yet, which will be something to cling to as and when his time does come. And he hasn't seen Pete since the cannon fired.

Usually the cannon also fires each time a tribute dies, but the first day is an exception to this rule. So many people die at the Barracks, it can be hard to keep track of at first. For them, the cannon will sound tonight, then they'll have their pictures displayed in the arena sky. After that, Ray will have a better idea of where he stands.

So: don't die yet. Don't kill Pete. Should be pretty easy to stick to that.

As he's been sitting so still, small fish have begun to swim around Ray’s feet. They're slow to react, lacking any natural instinct, and Ray’s able to grab two with his bare hands before they scatter. He cuts off their heads and guts them, tossing the entrails back into the pond, then forces himself to eat them raw. Their flesh is cold and slimy, especially after a week of fine Capitol food, but there are worse things than raw fish. Like starving to death.

Ray gulps down a quarter of his canteen to keep him going, then puts his shoes back on and makes a move. Instead of continuing to walk directly away from the Barracks he begins to curve around to the left slightly. Best case scenario he finds some denser foliage. Worst case he meets up with the mountainous terrain and finds a hidey hole or cave. The sun is beginning to set so he slows his pace, focusing on being quiet rather than covering distance. As he continues to press left the trees remain largely unchanged, however he begins to see stone structures like the ones in the field by the Barracks. They're all dilapidated, rarely does one have a roof and when it does that means it's missing at least two walls. He'd be a sitting duck if he hunkered down in one of those, but as the terrain grows increasingly dark he makes sure he remains alert to their presence. 

Once the darkness has had time to settle in the canons begin. Ray stops walking, finding himself a half-wall to crouch behind. He counts the cannons - eleven - then watches the sky to see who's been lost.

It occurs to him for the first time that he may be about to see Pete’s face in the sky. The thought sends a wave of panic through him. Pete can't die! He pushes it down and forces himself to watch through the branches.

The first tribute shown is the girl from 3, followed by one of the boys from 4. That means five of the six Conscripts made it, no surprise there. The girl from 5. Both tributes from 6, 7 and 9. Ray breathes an immense sight of relief not to see Pete’s face. The girl from 10, then the girl from 11, the one he saw Barkovitch kill.

Eleven. It's been a while since so many tributes have been lost on the first day. Still, Collie and Curly made it. And Pete. There's a chance, Ray thinks, that he might see Pete again. The thought warms him, despite the circumstances their meeting would be under.

A cracking sound behind Ray gives him a start. He keeps his adrenaline under control enough to make sure he stays put behind the wall, but his heart begins hammering. Noiselessly, he curses himself for beginning to loop back towards the Barracks. It seems he's lost any semblance of distance between himself and the other tributes.

Several more cracks ring out, before there's a period of silence, then suddenly a warm glow peeks over the wall. Someone must have lit a fire.

In the time Ray’s stopped to watch the fallen tributes he has noticed a significant drop in temperature. If he doesn't start moving soon he'll probably start shivering. But he would never, ever light a fire. This kid may as well be sending out a beacon to alert the Conscripts to where they are.

Behind the wall he’s fairly decently hidden; a safe distance from the fire-lighter, plus it's so comparatively dark on his side he'd probably get the jump on anyone approaching from that angle. If he makes a run for it he'll likely trip in the darkness, or be pursued by the fire-lighter themself. This could even be their tactic. But if he stays…

Despite the cold and the proximity of very real danger, the longer Ray stays still the more he feels his eyelids drooping. He hasn't slept properly in two days, and they have been two physically and mentally exhausting days. Asleep behind the wall has to be worse than pursued through the woods.

He tries to hang on as long as possible, but soon each blink is lasting longer than a minute. He has to go now.

Now.

Now.

Ray tenses his muscles in preparation to rise, but never makes it through the motion. Footsteps. Fast approaching. In his direction.

There's a scuffle around forty metres away, where Ray estimates the fire-lighter to be. The footsteps continue towards him, but likely someone broke off to deal with this poor kid. Ray hears him scream, cry, and beg - he sounds so young, Ray’s afraid for a moment it may be Curly - then eventually fall silent. The footsteps stop as a single pair scrambles to catch up. It's hard to make out words for a moment as several voices talk over each other, until they fall into a natural rhythm.

“Why hasn't the cannon sounded?” District 1 girl.

“Give it a minute, Jesus.” Barkovitch.

“Maybe we're too close.” The other District 4 boy.

“We're not too fucking close. Give it a minute, he’ll die. Not like he’s rushing off anywhere.” Barkovitch again. And, it seems, all but confirming his kill was the District 10 boy on crutches. Ray’s never seen anyone enter the arena with mobility aids, though it's pretty much impossible that no one has ever needed them. It's amazing, he thinks, that this boy lasted so long. Richard, Ray thinks, but he isn't confident about it. There are only twenty four of you, he tells himself, the least you could have done is remembered his name.

“We've talked about this.” It takes Ray a minute to place this voice, as he realises the only time he's ever heard him talk is during the interview. It's Stebbins, the District 2 boy who was obsessed with him during training. He has a very measured, commanding voice that puts Ray in mind of the Major when he's giving a speech. “No messing around, Gary. This isn't a game. Now, you go back over there and you give that young man a quick and honourable death.”

“That was an honourable death, okay? I did my part, it's not my fault he won't die. So maybe it's dark, maybe I didn't nick an artery like I meant to, whatever, give him two more minutes–”

“We're wasting time here. I'll go do it.”

Ray has to bite down on his lip to keep himself from gasping, because he'd recognise that voice in his sleep.

Peter McVries.

Chapter Text

“Go ahead.” Stebbins dismisses him and Ray hears Pete walk away.

The heavy feeling that he's about to die settles around Ray. He keeps himself as still as possible, but his mind races. Pete? Pete working with the Conscripts? Was this his game plan all along? Lull everyone into a false sense of security with his loverboy act and his noble speeches then become a vicious killing machine in the arena? He feels betrayed, despite not knowing if he has any right to be. It's a game. Pete’s playing it. And well, apparently.

As soon as he's out of earshot the Conscripts pick up their conversation again.

“Just let me kill him, Billy. We’ve taken out half the arena already, he can only stick around so long,” Barkovitch says.

“No,” Stebbins shuts him down coldly. “He’s our best shot at understanding Garraty.”

“I don't give a fuck about Garraty. We have a gun, what does he have?”

“I have a gun.” The District 1 girl.

“One of your knives. That was a careless throw,” Stebbins says. “Don’t mention this again until we know how Garraty got that eleven. Remember, no matter how fucked up he is now his dad was a victor. It's in his blood.”

“Just like killing’s in yours?”

It was a taunt, but Stebbins still responds in that cool, measured voice: “Yes.”

The cannon fires, startling Ray, but thankfully the echo of the boom masks any rustling sound he may have made. A moment later Pete returns, confirming that the District 10 boy is now dead. 

This is it, Ray thinks. Now they'll come for him.

Right on cue, the District 2 girl floats that someone should, “Check behind that low wall,” and a pair of footsteps breaks off from the group. Ray’s heart hammers uncomfortably hard against his ribs. He can't take all of them, but he still slips Barkovitch’s knife into his hand. Maybe if he puts up a good enough fight Collie or Curly could still win. Not Pete. Fuck Pete.

The footsteps are almost deafening to Ray now. They stop, presumably just short of the wall, and Ray tenses. Silence settles, then drags. Then the footsteps begin to recede again.

“Nothing,” he hears a voice, Pete’s voice, call. “Let's keep moving.”

After a moment of discussion the group presses on, heading past Ray and deeper into the woods.

Somewhere up in the canopy a bird gives a warning whistle, then a claw drops down from an unseen hovercraft to retrieve the boy’s body. Ray should move now. His limbs have stiffened from the cold and the lack of movement and his tiredness would likely make him too slow to react. Anyone could take him on in this position.

Yet someone didn't.

There's no guarantee it was Pete who came to check over the wall. Maybe his statement was simply in response to someone else shaking their head, telling him they were good to move on. But that doesn't make any sense to Ray either. It would have been six versus one, there isn't a single member of that group who would have been uneasy about engaging in combat.

Maybe they genuinely didn't see him. It's dark, and he's pressed right up against the stone, maybe they simply overlooked him. It's unlikely, but the alternative is that, despite joining the Conscripts seemingly for the sole reason of helping them track Ray down, Pete looked right at him and let him go.

You really need to move now, Ray tells himself. Slowly, muscles protesting, he stretches out until he's lying supine on the forest floor. He sits up. Takes a drink. Eats half a tube of ration paste - pork, which is disgusting to swallow but a relief to have in his stomach. 

He decides to veer even more sharply to the left, taking him away from the direction the Conscripts were heading. This will bring him back around towards the Barracks, where surely a few tributes will still be lurking, but at a much greater distance. The arena’s huge and there are only twelve of them left. If he's lucky he can avoid seeing anyone else until dawn.

After a few hours of trekking through the darkness, Ray realises dawn won't be such a catch-all solution to his problems. He's exhausted. He needs to find somewhere safe to rest within the next day or he can pretty much count himself out of the Games. He ends up eating half his pack of crackers and the rest of his pork ration tube just to make it through to sunrise. By the time he’s walking in the daylight he’s disoriented, dragging his feet. Every so often he can feel himself nodding off, even though he’s still walking. But still, he refuses to stop.

The woods begin to thin out and Ray can see into the field. He estimates that he's too far still to see the Barracks, but that's ideal. Straight ahead, far in the distance, he can see the mountainous area. The space between is filled with more collapsed stone buildings. To his right the dry, yellowish grass grows taller and taller until it's up to his chest. In the distance he can see the woods continue into the long grasses, so he sticks to the treeline and heads in that direction.

His head is starting to hurt. He's finished his canteen, but hasn't come across another source of water since the pond. Water doesn't seem all that pressing to him now, though. All that matters is that he keeps walking. To the grass. To the trees. Past them, if he has to.

To the best of his ability, Ray keeps an eye on the structures to his left. They're easy to hide behind, but don't offer any real means of shelter. Not the ones he can see, anyway. No one springs out at him, that's the important thing. So he keeps walking.

Some small part of Ray’s brain that's still capable of concentrating tells him to be cautious when he enters the long grass. Anything could be concealed in here. He crosses his arms and grabs the straps of his pack, preventing it from brushing against his jacket. His pace has been slow for a while now, but he slows it even further, refusing to even take a step without sweeping the area in front of him with his eyes. 

The trees are different here. Much smaller, thinner, more varied than in the woods Ray traversed over the course of the night. Looking up, he sees several of them bear fruit. An orchard!

A momentary bump of adrenaline wakes Ray up. He reaches and grabs hold of a branch of an apple tree, pulling down until he can pluck a piece of fruit from its bough. He examines it - it's the most perfect apple he's ever seen. Symmetrical, rosy red, shiny. A single leaf connected to the stem. A seed of doubt is planted in Ray’s mind, but he shrugs it off and goes to bite the apple anyway.

No.

He moves it away from his mouth and examines it again. Like everything here, this tree has been designed specifically for the arena, grown in a Capitol lab. It could be from a regular apple seed, cultivated in a highly advanced greenhouse. Or it could be something the Gamemakers engineered specifically for the arena.

There have been sources of food available in almost every arena Ray has lived to see. It's no fun, watching tributes slowly starve to death. But, equally, there are often misdirects. One time the Barracks was filled with a banquet as well as weapons, with a single slip of paper instructing the tributes not to eat. Anyone who ate from the table was dead within the hour. Often there are poisonous berries, easily mistaken for blackcurrants or blackberries.

Ray tosses the apple away.

As he continues he notices pear trees, cherry trees, and trees that seem to be hung with tiny oranges. All of them perfect, glinting with morning dew. 

The sun reaches its peak and the day gets oppressively hot. Ray keeps trying to take a swig from his canteen, only to remember that it's empty. He feels like crawling on his hands and knees - he'd be more vulnerable, but at least the grass would offer him some semblance of cover. He doesn't succumb to the desire, though. There will be much more interesting things to show on screen right now, but at the end of the day, when his mother finishes her shift at the hospital, they'll play an hour long recap of today’s Games. Ray’s sure to feature for at least a couple of minutes of that, and he doesn't want her to see him dragging himself along like an animal.

It's the second day, Garraty, pull yourself together, he commands. It's in your blood, apparently.

Some time in the afternoon he stumbles slightly. An icy cold seeping into his boots brings him back to his senses and he realises he's standing in a small stream. Oh, good. He wanted to find a stream.

He steps out of the water and walks alongside the stream for a bit. A few fish dart between the rocks and Ray thinks, ‘I should try to catch some of those,’ but doesn't make an effort to. He needs something else first, he needs…

Ray takes a swig from his canteen. Damn! It's dry. If only he had a stream or something…

He takes another few steps before it clicks, and then he's on his knees by the stream. He dips his canteen, goes to swallow an iodine tablet, then realises what he's doing and drops it into the water container. 

Once he's down on his knees it's hard to get back up again. So hard. But he has to keep walking, because… Because… Ray blinks, and when he opens his eyes again his face is centimetres from the stream’s surface. He jerks back. Sleep! He has to keep walking so he can find somewhere safe to sleep.

With great effort, Ray gets up again. He can drink from his canteen again in just under an hour, which is a small motivation. He just needs some kind of cover, something less obvious than a man-made shelter. Although, technically, all shelter here is man made.

There's a chance this is just one of those arenas where you have to take your chances with the elements. At this point, having an ally would be a huge benefit. The Conscripts probably caught some sleep during the day yesterday, guarding each other in shifts, then went out to hunt at night. They'll probably do the same today. And the sun is very slowly beginning its descent.

Ray wonders if there's anything William can do to help him. Maybe his efforts at the Barracks were so feeble he doesn't have any sponsors. Maybe William’s doing as he said he would and looking out for Pete, who is in objectively better shape right now. Or maybe losing Ray sent William further into the depths of the spiral he's been circling for years now, and he's catatonic in his room.

Or maybe it's just impossible to deliver a secure shelter to the arena. Probably that.

With each step Ray tells himself he'll just lie down in the grass. His situation is getting dire. Each time he takes a break he almost falls asleep, but walking has become a near impossible chore. Despite his very steady pace he's breathing heavily. His legs feel like led.

Just lie down here, he tells himself. Let them kill you. Better that than die walking.

Ray’s eyes flick from his boots to the horizon and he catches sight of something in the distance. He blinks several times in quick succession, clearing his blurry vision. Gathered around the base of the trees, intermingling with the long grasses, are huge patches of brambles. Ray breaks into a light jog and collapses down beside one. Like all the fruit here, they're perfect, and so are their branches. Although sharp, they're growing in almost a perfect dome shape.

Ray has spent many a night in much rougher bramble patches when he couldn't get home from the woods. He lays down on his stomach and crawls in. From inside the tangled vines he can barely see the orchard, which means anyone looking in could barely see him. Of course, someone could still have followed him here. And if they were actively looking for him he has zero means of escape. But he's asleep before he can really dwell on this.

Ray wakes up cold. A half-formed thought to get into his sleeping bag before he goes to sleep resurfaces. Much too late for that. Judging by the light outside the bramble bush it's almost dawn. He's slept about seven hours, and in doing so missed yesterday’s casualties.

Even with a clear head he's quite proud of his hiding spot and is in half a mind to get into his sleeping bag and go back to sleep when he realises what woke him. Rain, dripping through the trees and the branches and down onto his clothing. The drops are heavy and cold but sparse.

Ray props himself up on an elbow. He could go looking for more secure shelter, but look where that got him last time. He can afford to get a little soggy.

The rain picks up quickly, far too quickly to be a natural rainstorm. Ray untangles himself from the brambles and crouches down with his back to the trunk of a pear tree. Within seconds the rain has become hail, coming down heavy and hard on the hood of Ray’s jacket. 

He sticks a hand out in an attempt to get a feel for the size of the hail stones - they're really starting to drum on his skull. Immediately he draws his hand back towards his chest, a soft gasp of pain escaping from his lips. He unfurls his hand to check the damage - a small, bleeding puncture wound and the rapidly melting spike of ice that caused it.

This isn't just a hail storm. It's an attack.

Chapter Text

On instinct, Ray presses his back hard against the tree trunk. It offers a little protection from the icy projectiles, but all around him he can see larger spikes of ice cutting through the canopy and spearing the earth. So much as a scratch from one of those and he'd be unlikely to recover. He has to find real shelter and fast.

But where? He doesn't know how deep into the orchard he really is. He walked at least two hours deep yesterday, but that was at a slow, sleepy pace. And he has no idea which direction he was walking in. He remembers turning to follow the stream, meaning he's probably closer to the field than he’d initially thought.

The field will contain at least one fortified shelter, but Ray imagines every tribute caught up in the hail storm is probably thinking the same thing. If he wants shelter he'll have to fight for it. And if wants to be alive to fight for it he'll have to start moving now.

He doesn't have to force himself this time. As soon as he thinks the command Ray’s on his feet and running. He can feel the hail battering down against his jacket, sticking into his backpack, but it only scratches his bare skin. To minimise the effects he tucks his hands into his sleeves and pulls his hood as far as it will go over his forehead. Still, he can feel warm blood intermingling with the cold water as it drips down his face.

The hail gets progressively heavier as Ray runs. More and more often he finds himself dodging out the way of an icy spear that skewers the ground at his feet. He doesn't see anyone else as he runs. He also doesn't see any wildlife. Granted, there's been no indication that anything except birds, fish, and tributes inhabit this arena, but the fact that there are no birds crowding the canopy or huddling on the ground is highly unusual. Perhaps the Gamemakers called them back before launching this particular attack.

Oftentimes, specific areas of an arena are rigged to launch specific attacks. This helps with the Games’ entertainment factor, whether it be to drive tributes together or to liven up a particularly slow day. Perhaps the Conscripts had a poor night of hunting, their potential victims spaced too far apart. Or perhaps this attack is just for Ray, son of William Garraty, golden boy tribute. Perhaps he's a sacrifice, chosen to make day two of the Games especially gripping.

He presses on until he reaches the treeline, but pulls up short just before entering the field. After doing a quick sweep for other tributes, Ray allows himself to double over, gasping for breath. If only he could pace himself! He could outrun the hail that way. But even as he's doubled over a huge spike of ice whizzes past his peripheral vision, sinking into the soft earth just in front of his face. That's enough to set Ray going again. He only makes it three steps, however, before something heavy smashes into his pack, knocking him to the ground.

Ray flicks his knife down into his hand and tries to flip over and face his assailant, but he only makes it to his side before something stops him. A weapon lodged in his pack? Panicked, Ray squirms his way out of the straps. Hail dashes across his cheeks, his hands, his now-exposed torso, tearing his flesh and his shirt. He jumps up, ready to face another tribute, but he's alone in the field. Confused, he looks down at his pack. A huge, thin spear of ice protrudes from the back. 

Ignoring the warm fear prickling up his neck, Ray stomps on the icicle, breaking it off, swings his pack back onto his back, and takes off. Already structures are coming into view: two walls no roof, roof collapsed onto floor, folley with no entrance. They're fairly sparse, so even if Ray spots something suitable he'll have to cover a fair distance to reach it, and cover if fast if he wants to make sure he reaches it first.

Out in the field, Ray feels very exposed. He's tired now, too, having run for at least half an hour, likely more. If that District 1 girl with the gun has any semblance of aim she could take him out without him even knowing.

A sudden, blinding pain at his hip brings Ray to his knees. What a time to get a stitch, he thinks, but when he reaches to put pressure on the sore spot his hands come away dripping with blood. Ray peels his jacket back, which now has a hole through it - he's been impaled! Okay, not impaled exactly. Clearly the hail spike has grazed him, taking a chunk out of his side as it did so. Ray reaches to pull up his shirt, investigate the wound, but a scratch on his cheek brings him back to reality. This may end up killing him, but not as quickly as a strike to the head would. He has to keep going.

Ray makes it to his feet, but the second he does he almost falls back down again. It hurts. A deep, biting, takes-your-breath-away kind of hurt. He takes off, but he's slow now, limping a little in an attempt to not pull at his wound. He tries to keep looking around for shelter, but he's distracted. Can I bleed out from this? he wonders. Better check. No. Wait. Don't. Can't stop.

His breathing, previously quite controlled, is now ragged and heavy. He wonders if he's dying already and he just doesn't know it. He presses on, feeling like a zombie.

It's another ten minutes before Ray realises the hail has stopped. The second he does, he collapses to the floor. Other tributes are now the last of his concerns.

He strips himself of his backpack and jacket, a portion of which is now stained with blood. His shirt and undershirt fared far worse. His shirt has a ragged hole torn through it, as well as a circle of blood emanating from it. His undershirt may as well be a bloody rag. Ray removes it, steels himself, then takes a look at his hip. It's hard to tell the full extent of it with all the blood. Unclipping his canteen from his backpack, Ray dribbles some water on it. It stings, but as it washes away it reveals a rough, sinewy slash on Ray’s side. It's just a flesh wound, albeit a deep one. A few centimetres shaved off his side. If he can staunch the bleeding, keep it clean… Who’s he kidding? Without a first aid kit, infection will get him within the week. A week in the arena, though, is quite a generous period of time.

Ray wads his undershirt up and presses it into the wound. He then ties his shirt around his waist, using it to secure his makeshift bandage. He buttons his jacket up over the top of the ensemble, so at least he has one layer of defence between himself and the elements. Just in case, Ray readies his pack on his back, but he takes a moment to catch his breath. He sips from his canteen. He should probably eat something, but between the running and the stab wound he feels ridiculously nauseous. 

Half an hour passes. Ray starts to feel quite peaceful. This huge arena, with just eleven other people. Maybe fewer, after last night. Why shouldn't he just sit here? They're just as likely to find him here as anywhere else.

And, as it turns out, that likelihood is very high.

Ray hears them before he sees them. A distant shout as someone spots him in the grass, then the sound of several sets of footsteps picking up the pace. Without even needing to think, Ray’s on his feet and moving. His side protests at the sudden movement, but Ray pushes through it. He scans the terrain for somewhere, anywhere he can hide. Or, at least, get the higher ground.

The Conscripts - despite not turning around, Ray can tell it's them from Barkovitch’s shouts - are hot on his heels. Either they weren't caught up in the hail storm or they fared much better than he did. He had a decent head start, but they're closing the gap. At least, Ray thinks, they haven't shot me.

Another structure crests the horizon. It has three walls and half a ceiling still intact but, more pressing now to Ray, a ladder leading up to a lofted area about twenty feet off the ground. It seems to be some kind of old farm building. It's a long shot, but if Ray can get up that ladder and pull it up behind him…

He takes one last glance to his right - the mountain is a good half-hour’s jog away - and his left - he could reach the woods within ten minutes, but then what? - and runs full pelt for the barn.

As soon as Ray reaches the ladder he begins climbing. He's at the top before he knows it, but climbing was always going to be the easy task. The ladder, it turns out, is bolted to the loft panels. Panic tingles at the edges of Ray’s brain, but he tries to keep calm. Just lift the ladder, he tells himself, hold it there if you have to.

The ladder is solid wood, much heavier than Ray expected. Fresh blood seeps through his jacket as he strains. The appearance of the first Conscript - the District 2 girl - gives him the boost of adrenaline he needs to haul the ladder off the ground. From there it's easier to heave the bulk of the structure off the floor. By the time Ray has levelled the ladder off, holding it straight out, all six Conscripts have skidded to a halt in the barn. Including Pete. Arms still straining, Ray drops his gaze to look at Pete. Of course, he's looking right back at him, but his face is unreadable.

“Hey, Garraty.” Barkovitch is standing just below the lip of the loft. “Come down here, I want to ask you something.”

Ray ignores him. He can't hold the ladder for much longer. He has to either drop it or break it off. And he can't drop it. 

He does though. Only for a moment, and not all the way, but low enough and hard enough that it connects with the District 1 girl’s head, knocking her out cold.

By the time Ray realises he probably shouldn't apologise in the arena the, “Sorry,” has already left his lips, but he doesn't have time to truly feel bad. Using the momentum from the ladder’s drop, he swings it back up, snapping the wood where the metal rivets connect to the loft. Arms tensed and fuelled primarily by adrenaline and fear, Ray swings the ladder up into the loft beside him.

His arms don't even ache, they feel hollow. His side is bleeding profusely. But before he can allow himself to collapse he asses the situation below.

Stebbins is seeing to the District 1 girl. Barkovitch is kneeling beside the pair, but not helping. He's grabbing at something, and Stebbins keeps smacking his hand away. District 4 is walking slowly around the barn, clearly looking for a way to join Ray in the loft. The walls are riveted wood, but the rivets are thin and run from rafter to ground. No way to get a good grip. The District 2 girl is, disconcertingly, missing. Pete is still staring at him. His eyes are blown so wide he almost looks panicked. 

Ray crawls back from the ledge and glances around the loft. It's barren, save for some strewn hay. There are thin, pane-less windows. Ray peers through one and looks down the smooth side of the barn. There's District 2, prowling the perimeter. He'd like to see her try to scale that. Above him is a dark, steepled ceiling, supported by beams. The sun is fully risen now, but Ray still can't make anything out in the depths.

Satisfied that he's safe, for now, he collapses on his back. 

It takes a while for the Conscripts to re-group. They managed to rouse Barkovitch’s District partner, which miraculously does calm him a little. From their dialogue, though, Ray can tell he's managed to wrestle the gun off her - what he'd been vying for earlier. Stebbins keeps having quiet conversations with Pete, but they're too hushed or Ray’s too out of it to hear what they're saying.

It's early afternoon by the time the Conscripts have put together an assault plan. Ray has managed to gather that while the gun is worth a shot they have limited ammunition, so if it doesn't work out they're going to switch to bow and arrow. And, failing that, Barkovitch gets to throw some knives. There was some arguing over who got to shoot the gun - the District 1 girl had been a shoe in, but she's still pretty out of it - and while Barkovitch had held onto it for a while it’s now in Stebbins hands. With great effort, Ray rolls onto his side and presses himself up against the wall, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. The horrible, echoing crack of a gunshot echoes around the barn. Ray feels the loft shake beneath him, but the bullet doesn't penetrate the wood. He hears Stebbins feed this back to the group.

Next a steady stream of arrows fly over the edge of the loft, some clattering harmlessly amongst the hay and others managing to stick into the wood. It would do some damage, if one did hit Ray, but the chances are so small and they only have so many arrows. After five have been wasted, they give up on this too.

They're really just humouring Barkovitch, letting him throw his knives. He's a fantastic shot, even lining one of his throws up so the knife sails over the loft and right out the window, ready for Barkovitch to collect again, but it's futile. He's too high, the loft panels too thick. They’ll just have to wait for him to come down.

“It's fine,” he hears Stebbins say. “He either has to come down or starve to death.”

Starve to death, Ray thinks. At least he'd be wasting their time in the process.

But, as if to prove them wrong, he does force himself to sit upright and sip from his canteen whilst eating half a tube of ration paste on crackers. As he eats, he calls down, “Hey, so what do you want with me, anyway? Plenty other tributes out there.”

There's a long, long pause.

Then Barkovitch shouts, “Because you're fucking queer.”

A round of groans and, “Shut up, Barkovitch,” erupt from the group.

“We're not killing him because he's queer,” Stebbins says.

“He's not queer.” District 1 girl, still sounding a little woozy. “That one is.”

“He has a name,” Stebbins says without using it. “And they can both be queer. But that's not why we’re after Garraty.” Ray doesn't think he's going to continue, but eventually he calls up to Ray, “Your ma was pregnant with you while your father was in the Games, right?”

Stebbins had not struck Ray as the type of person to call his mother ‘ma’.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies.

“And he said the only reason he could win, the only reason he was able to fight, was so that he could meet you. Yeah?”

Ray never heard his father say those words exactly, but it sounds like something he would have said. “Sure.”

With that, Stebbins seems satisfied, though Ray definitely isn't.

I need to die because my father loves me, he thinks, then: no, I need to die because my father loved me.

The Conscripts begin setting up base in the barn below. For now they'll get some rest, but come nightfall they'll head off in groups to hunt. Ray wonders if Pete has killed anyone, aside from that poor District 10 boy. He must have done, in order to impress the Conscripts. Ray wants to ask him about it, but to do so in front of other people feels wrong. Somehow, in his muddled, exhausted mind, talking with Pete has become intrinsically linked with intimacy.

Instead Ray lies on his back, shirt pressed against his wound, and dozes while attempting to think up an escape plan that doesn't involve bleeding and/or starving to death. When he hears a soft ‘thud’ he cracks an eye open, but there's nothing to see. Maybe Barkovitch is practicing throwing knives against the side of the barn. Ray closes his eyes again, but suddenly the sensation is uncomfortable. The bridge of his nose prickles and he feels like he's behind watched.

So, he's only slightly surprised when he opens his eyes again to find a face centimetres from his own.

Chapter Text

Ray jerks back, hitting his head against the wooden floor. Curly backs up a little, eyes wide and apologetic. Ray waits for a blow to be delivered, but one quick once over and it's clear Curly doesn't have any weapons. He has a small backpack, a hat, and the lower half of his left pant leg has been replaced with a bandage. On the floor beside him is a tangled mass of rope and wire. 

Curly raises one hand, curling his fingers together then wiggling them slightly - a symbol for fire from a children’s game. At this Ray starts, propping himself up on one elbow, but Curly makes placating motions. He crosses his forearms, then makes a fire symbol again. No fire. He points to his chest, then cups his ear while mouthing, ‘I heard.’ So, Ray gathers, they were considering torching the barn, but didn't. Curly points at Ray, then shakes his head.

‘Me, no?’ Ray mouths, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

Curly tries again. Points at Ray, pauses, makes a shaking hands motion, then shakes his head.

‘Pete?’ Ray mouths. A nod. ‘Said not to?’ Another nod. Ray points at Curly, then replicates his handhaking motion.

Curly puts his two index fingers together, then draws them apart. ‘Separated.’

Ray forces himself into a sitting position. He'd hoped the pain in his side would have subsided a little by now, but it's just as ferocious as ever. From his new vantage point, he takes a better look at Curly. The boy looks exhausted. He was already thin, but two days in the arena have hollowed his cheeks out even further. The bandage around his leg is bloodied but not soaked; a light wound in an inconvenient location. He seems happy to see Ray. For what it's worth, Ray’s happy to see him too.

He feels so foolish, suddenly, for thinking this little boy would kill him.

Curly taps Ray’s shoulder, then points up into the rafters. Ray looks, but can't see anything. Obviously this shows on his face, as Curly touches his cheek, redirecting his line of sight. It's only when Curly wipes his hand on his pants that Ray realises his face is still covered in blood.

He squints up into the rafters, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. No, not dark at all. The bodies. Hundreds of them, mostly still but undulating gently: bats.

Ray considers this new development. There's a chance they're just ordinary bats. There's also a chance they're deadly weapons, engineered by the Gamemakers. Much like the food sources, animals in the arena can be toyed with: sharper teeth, keener sense of smell, a thirst for blood. They can also make rabbits that are venomous or poison dart frogs that are the antidote to fatigue.

In his scenario, Ray rather hopes they're deadly killers. 

Scooping his baseball from his pocket, Ray mimes throwing it up into the rafters, then a shower of bats raining down into the barn. Curly nods with enthusiasm. A small spark of hope now alight in his chest, Ray begins readying his supplies to move, but Curly stops him. 

‘No?’ Ray questions.

Curly shakes his head; covers his eyes. Ray gives him a blank look. He reaches out and covers Ray’s eyes instead.

Oh. Wait until dark. When the bats will be most active, and the Conscripts will be caught off guard.

Ray nods sharply to confirm his understanding. He sits himself back down again and reaches into his pack. He offers his half-tube of ration paste and the rest of his crackers to Curly.

Curley’s eyes widen - he can't take that, it's far too much - but Ray just keeps holding it out until Curley reluctantly accepts the offer. Once the food is in his hands, hunger wins out, and he's devoured it in less than a minute. 

Ray’s about to settle down, suggest they both get some rest before tonight, when a thump at one of the windows startles them. Ray leans in front of Curley, knife in hand, but it's not an assailant at the window: it's a parachute. This is how sponsor gifts are delivered to the arena; wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string, and attached to a white parachute. A small tag, much like a refugees’ name tag, is attached. It seems this one’s for Ray.

He hauls it over, showing it off to Curley, who seems absolutely enraptured. Ray’s careful when untying the string - you never know what might come in handy - and unwrapping the paper. Inside is first aid supplies. Antibacterial wipes, a roll of bandage, and one large gauze pad. There's a lot of medical jargon on the packaging that Ray doesn't understand.

Fucking thank you, William, Ray thinks. It's nice to feel like someone out there is in his corner.

Before seeing to his own wound, Ray silently offers to check out Curley’s leg. Again, he protests - these are Ray’s things - but Ray’s insistent. He unwraps the bandage and reveals a long but shallow cut along Curley’s calf. Ray’s no expert healer - it was his brother who was always begging their mother to teach him first aid or take him to the hospital with her, while Ray was busy parroting his father’s philosophies - but he's competent enough. He wipes down the wound and ties around a fresh bandage.

Ray reaches to unbutton his jacket but, remembering how bloody his side looks, pauses to turn Curley around first. Gingerly, he removes his jacket, shirt, and then pries his undershirt away. Ouch. It doesn't look much better.

Setting his jaw, Ray cleans the wound with antiseptic wipes. When he's satisfied - when he can't bear looking at his own exposed insides anymore - he slaps the gauze pad on. He puts on his shirt and jacket, but balls up the bloody shirt and stuffs it into his pack. Finally, he sets about cleaning the blood from his face and hands. Curley’s allowed to turn back around for this part.

Then it's just a waiting game. Ray allows Curley to look through his pack. He seems very excited by the book, though without being able to talk Ray doesn't understand why. Curley’s also eager to show Ray his own pack, which contains a length of rope, a pair of sunglasses, and a miniature canteen.

Ray lies back down, making sure he can keep an eye on the colour of the sky. Curley lies down beside him and, Ray thinks, pretty much immediately falls asleep. Ray wonders how long it had been since he'd last slept.

Ray wakes with a start. He doesn't remember falling asleep. A panicked glance to the sky shows that it's a dusty pink - the sun is just beginning to set. Rolling onto his stomach - a movement that is surprisingly painless - Ray crawls to the edge of the loft and peers down. Five Conscripts are bunched together, asleep. Pete is sitting almost directly below him, a short sword in his hands. Before Ray can crawl back, Pete looks up and meets his gaze.

Move, Ray's instinct tells him firmly. He doesn't.

“Hey,” Pete whispers.

“Hey.”

“Pretty impressive, what you did with the ladder,” he says.

That irks Ray. “Pretty impressive how you're trying to kill me,” he shoots back.

A pause. “It's not like that.”

Ray has to fight to keep his voice at a whisper. “Let me guess? This ain't about me.”

“No,” Pete says softly. “Actually, this is about you.”

Whatever the fuck that means, Ray thinks, sliding backwards so he's no longer visible from the barn. Their whisperings must have woken Curly, who's sitting watching him. He points at Ray, makes a heart shape with his hands, then points down at the barn. ‘You love him?’

Ray hesitates only for a moment, then shakes his head.

Curley repeats the motion, this time pointing first at Pete. ‘He loves you?’

Does he? He was very friendly on the train, until he wasn't. Very supportive during arena prep, until he wasn't. Confessed to being in love with him, then conspired with his killers. Only to potentially let him go… This was about him…

Curley takes Ray’s silence as an answer of its own and settles back down for another nap. Unable to sleep anymore, Ray watches the sky through the window slit as it gradually becomes purple, then dark blue. Below, he can hear the Conscripts beginning to prepare for a night of hunting. It's now or never.

He wakes Curley, instructing him wordlessly to get out of here. For a moment he worries Curley won't be able to escape the way he got in, but then Curley pulls out his wad of rope and metal and attaches it to the window frame: it's a grappling hook. He offers to let Ray climb down after him, but while the crude construction is perfect for Curley it would never hold Ray’s weight. 

“Meet me down in the orchard, okay?” Ray whispers. He isn't sure he'll make it, but he tries to sound confident for Curley’s sake. 

Curley nods, then disappears outside. After a few seconds the rope ripples, then the hook is pulled down after him. Ray watches his tiny shadow sprinting across the field.

Oh god, Ray thinks. Oh god, he's just a kid.

Forcing himself to turn away, Ray nudges the ladder to the edge of the loft with his foot. Then he takes hold of his baseball. He'd never brag about it aloud, but he's the best pitcher in his school and that's about to come in handy. He tries not to mourn the loss of his baseball. It would only be heading home in a coffin in a few days anyway.

It's an easy shot - one fast arc right across the rafters.

Deep breath. He throws.

It's instant chaos. As predicted, the majority of the bats drop down low in an attempt to escape. The Conscripts begin to scream and flail. The gun is fired. Barkovitch is shouting profanities.

A few, though, remain at loft level. Ray curls up, trying to keep a line of sight to the barn floor in case an opportunity arises to drop the ladder. One bites his shoulder. The pain is barely more than a scratch, but immediately Ray’s shoulder begins to feel numb. His eyes unfocus momentarily and he has to breathe deeply to sharpen himself up.

Venomous bats. A blessing and a curse.

In the near-darkness, Ray can see some of the Conscripts have already departed the barn, but not all of them. But that's a risk he'll have to take. Not knowing exactly how much damage that venom will do, he has to drop the ladder and get out of there now.

The second the cloud of bats begins to thin, Ray swings the ladder out, leaning it against the loft. His descent is clumsy, and he sustains a second bite to the hand. When his boots hit the earth he stumbles. He rights himself, begins to run for the field, then doubles back when something catches his eye. Right on the threshold is the District 1 girl, not dead but covered with bites and clearly overcome by the venom. She has the gun. His gun.

Ray drops to his knees beside her and the whole world drops with him. The darkness is glowing, rippling with an iridescent rainbow of colours. Another Gamemaker trick? Or a hallucination? 

He grabs at the gun and she grabs back, her fingers sinking right through the barrel. Ray closes his eyes, the rainbows continuing to dance on his eyelids, and pulls. This time the gun comes away easily and he's thrown onto his back. 

Another bite, deep in his thigh.

Ray stands up. The moon has sunk down and begun to spill out into the field. He goes to take a step, but can't. Something’s missing. What’s missing?

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Ray whips round. Pete, or someone who looks like Pete, is standing a couple of metres away. There's a bite on his neck, but his teeth are gritted and he seems to be keeping himself grounded.

“Get out of here.” Ray watches the words exit his mouth in a comic-book speech bubble. “Ray, run. Stebbins is coming for you, run!”

Ray levels the gun, not at Pete but at the distant forest. He mimes shooting it, no longer trusting his heavy tongue to form words.

The gun fires suddenly and Ray and Pete both tense. No, it wasn't the gun, it was the cannon. District 1 is dead, most likely. Soon they will come to clear away her body. And Ray needs that ammunition.

In his daze he hasn't noticed Pete dropping to the floor. He's rooting in District 1’s pockets. A hand shoots out, along with a burst of confetti, and he holds a box out to Ray.

“Take it and run. Ray. Jesus, just go!” 

Ray takes the box from Pete and accepts the shove in the chest it earns him. Once his feet are moving he gains some traction, but he's too captivated by Pete to run straight. He glances over his shoulder. Some of the other Conscripts are returning to the barn now. Their running is lopsided, hindered, or maybe it's still Ray’s vision.

He sees a tall blond - Stebbins, must be Stebbins - step up to Pete in a confrontational manner. Pete’s shouting. Stebbins draws a sword–

Ray trips. When he rights himself it's all he can do to keep running forward. The orchard. He promised Curley.

He's not heading towards the orchard though, and try as he might, he can't seem to correct his course. He stumbles into the trees at the base of the mountain. Their trunks blink in and out of reality, which makes it difficult to pick out a path. Ray sprints straight into what looks like open space, only to smack shoulder-first into a solid fir tree.

God, I hope I don't land on the gun, Ray thinks, before he falls unconscious.

Chapter Text

Ray has a strange dream. He's walking down a tarmac road, fields on either side, sun beating down on him. The other tributes are walking with them, and they're flanked on either side by a halftrack. He's chatting with Pete, but he can't make out what Pete’s saying, or focus on his own words. All he knows is that it's very amicable. Pete keeps patting him on the shoulder or linking their arms. It's nice.

Ray turns to look at Curley, who's trailing a little ways behind them. He opens his mouth to shout for him to catch up when suddenly one of the halftracks fires and Curley’s head is blown clean off.

Ray wakes with a start. He's in a ditch, partially covered in leaf litter. He feels cold and stiff. So much for that sleeping bag, it hasn't seen a minute’s use since he landed here. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Ray surveys his belongings. He has the gun. And, in his pocket, he has the ammunition. A fuzzy memory vies for his attention, but it hurts to recall so he ignores it. His backpack is still on his back, too, so he drains the rest of his canteen water.

Looking around, Ray finds himself surrounded by tall fir trees. The ground slopes gently downwards, confirming he's somewhere at the base of the mountain. Above him, the terrain grows gradually steeper, becoming more rocky. It's difficult to get a good view of the sky from down here, but Ray estimates it to be late morning. Was he only out for the night? He feels awful.

He wonders about Curly, if he managed to get away last night. He wonders about… No, he doesn't want to think about that.

Right, Ray thinks, this is arguably the best position you've been in since you arrived here, even if it doesn't feel like it. Get your shit together.

He starts with the carbine. It takes a while for him to figure it out, but eventually he finds the magazine release button. The gun can hold ten rounds - seven have been fired. In the ammunition box Pete– In the ammunition box he has, there are another ten bullets. He can afford to fire the carbine ten times. Clumsily, Ray inserts another seven bullets into the magazine and reattaches it. He thinks the safety is on, but just in case he's careful to point the gun away from himself.

Next, he eats his final tube of ration paste. His top priority for today will be finding a new food source. He reckons he's fared better than most over the last few days, but for the first time he's truly aware of how hungry he is, even after eating. Using the string from his parachute, he ties two loops of his pants together, cinching them slightly. He's used to his weight fluctuating a little - while he prefers to be a little chunky he can't really complain when he's the one putting food on the table - but after a week in the Capitol he was probably the healthiest he'd been in his adult life. Losing weight this quickly isn't a good sign. 

After a night in a ditch, Ray’s also very aware of how grimy his clothes - and by extension, him - are. A trip to a body of water will knock three worries off his list, so he stands, carefully. His muscles protest, but allow it. His thigh is still a little numb where he got bitten.

Clutching the carbine to his chest he sets off in the direction he believes the orchard to be, hoping to rendezvous with the stream and, potentially, Curly. He only makes it two slow steps before he hears a twig snap and whirls round. Peering out from behind the trunk of a fir is a head of curly, brown hair. Ray immediately lowers the carbine.

“Allies?” He sticks his hand out, hoping to make official what they couldn't discuss the previous night.

Tentatively, Curly emerges from behind the tree. “I took your book while you were sleeping,” he says. “I hope you don't mind.”

Ray hadn't even noticed its absence as he sorted through his pack. “That's fine. You keep it.”

Curly shakes his hand enthusiastically.

Ray shares his plans to find a water source, which are met with further enthusiasm from Curley. Quickly, Ray learns that he hasn't just been unconscious for a night, but two, and Curley has a lot to fill him in on. The District 1 girl and the District 4 boy died during the bat drop. Ten tributes left. The Conscripts reconvened near the Barracks, having seemingly acquired the District 3 boy amongst their ranks. Pete got into a huge fight with Stebbins and Curley hasn't seen him since. 

“I need to ask you… About Pete,” Ray says as they walk. “Were you watching, when I went for the gun?” Curley nods. “Pete, he tried to… I don't even know.”

“He tried to get you to run away. Stebbins was after you, that's why they fought.”

Ray tries to fit this piece into the puzzle that is Pete, but he's working from three different puzzle boxes. What would Pete possibly gain from defending him? From breaking with the Conscripts? Unless he really… No, even then that would be crazy. A performance, it has to be. Albeit an elaborate one.

“Did he look okay? When he went off?” Ray asks.

“I was quite far away, I'm not sure. Stebbins got him real good with the sword, but he'd got a lot of bat bites. I don't know how deep he cut.”

An overwhelming urge to ask Curley to help him look for Pete washes over him, but Ray bites his tongue before he can express this. He has the carbine, but with only thirteen shots and not much practice he can't really rely on it. He's hungry, dehydrated, and though it really shouldn't matter less he isn't keen on seeing Pete before he's had the chance to bathe. Plus, he's just committed to keeping a twelve year old alive.

Not that Curley really needs his help; he's made it this far.

They reach the stream, which is still a fully fledged river at this height. Ray fills his cantine, then breaks an iodine tablet in half so Curley can purify his own water. He debates whether to fish or wash first, but Curley cuts in, opening up his pack. He's been busy in the day Ray’s been out - it's full of food. 

“How do you know this is safe?” Ray asks as Curley lays out his piles of mushrooms, green leaves, and tubers. His pack, Ray notes, is absent of any orchard fruits. 

“Your book.” Curley brandishes Ray’s crappy little survival guide.

He takes the book and this time gives it a proper once-over. It's not just a survival guide; it's an arena survival guide. The book documents, with great care, What's edible and what's not. Which creatures are dangerous and which will act like they would in nature. It also contains a very rough map of the arena.

Ray feels like a fool, but the feeling quickly passes when he and Curley start in on the spoils. His loss being Curley’s gain ended up working out quite well for him anyhow. Ray promises to catch them some fish, and Curley assures him he can get more tubers, so they devour the pile. As they eat, Ray gets to know Curley, the eldest of four siblings and proud of it. 

“I'm going to be thirteen next month,” he tells Ray. It's almost enough to make Ray lose his appetite.

To hear Curley describe it, life in District 12 is much harder than anything Ray’s ever experienced in 8. While their military presence is lighter, poverty is widespread. Even the wealthiest merchant families struggle - what's the use in running a business if no one can afford your wares? The District is small and almost everyone works in the mines and thus dies young. Curley had lost his own father to the mines when he was nine. Now, to help his mum support the family, he takes tesserae and scavenges in the Meadow - a grassy area at the edge of the District.

Curley is - was - good in school, a fast runner, and loves playing catch with his youngest sister. At that, he removes Ray’s baseball from his jacket pocket. “I almost forgot. I went back and took it,” he says. “I thought you might want it.”

Ray is deeply touched, but he waves Curley off. “It's okay,” he says. “You keep it.”

“We could play catch later,” Curley offers. “I have a good aim, too.”

Ray takes a swig from his canteen to help him choke back a sob. Curley has to win. No matter how good Ray’s odds now are, no matter what he may or may not owe to Pete, how could anyone disagree? Curley deserves those six years the rest of them have already been granted and more.

After eating, Ray takes off his jacket and submerges it in the river, ridding it of the blood and grime. He lays it out on a rock to dry, then starts to do the same with his shirt. Curley, who had begun copying him, pauses to stare at him for a second.

“I wish I was big and strong like you,” he says plainly.

“You will be, when you're older,” Ray replies on instinct. “Anyway, you have your own strengths and they're pretty cool too.”

Once his clothes are clean, Ray takes stock of his wounds. The scratches from the lighter hail have scabbed over or completely healed. His bat bites are quite badly bruised, but otherwise fine. It's the gauze pad that really causes him anxiety. He'd actually forgotten about it until he stripped, it hasn't caused him any pain at all today, but he's still hesitant to expose the wound.

Slowly, he peels the adhesive back. Underneath is soft, pink, freshly healed skin. Ray peels the rest of the gauze pad off. No blood, no exposed muscle. It's obvious, looking at the soft, rounded flesh of his other hip, that he's had a few centimetres shaved off his side, but otherwise it looks like he's sustained nothing more than a mild burn. 

Curley, who's watching him probe his wound, pipes up, “You must have really good sponsors.”

The gauze pad must have been some kind of high tech, Capitol medical care. It healed his wound overnight.

“You haven't got anything yet?” Ray asks. He shakes his head. “Well, you will. You're so smart and resourceful, people will see that.”

While they wait for their clothes to dry, Ray teaches Curley how to fish. He's much more patient than Jan, who has ruined more than one fishing trip by spontaneously bursting into conversation. Despite this, Ray feels a pang of longing when he thinks of her. By evening they have five fish, which Ray guts and wraps in paper for them to take with them. They dress, re-dress their wounds, then Curley collects another handful of tubers while Ray hikes a little higher up the mountain. Next to the river are several small ledges and caves. It doesn't take too long for him to find one he and Curley can squeeze into without being seen from the exterior. He climbs inside, unrolling his sleeping bag for the first time and laying it out like a bed. When Curley joins him they eat fish and tubers, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Ray unties the string from his belt loops.

Once the sky is dark they crowd at the edge of the cave, watching the night sky for any projections. No new deaths tonight.

“What do we do now?” Curley asks.

The obvious answer is set up a watch and get some sleep, but Ray knows he's asking about more than that. They're a team, like the Conscripts. They could tough it out, hope a few more of their competitors get taken out. Or…

Carbine in hand, Ray leans against the cave wall, indicating he'll take first watch.

“I think it's finally time we start playing this game,” he says.

Chapter Text

Curley’s gone when Ray wakes up. Cold, creeping panic spreads throughout his body as he grows more alert; he’s in the cave, in the sleeping bag, carbine on the floor beside him, sun still rising, but no Curley. Quickly, with little regard to how much noise he’s making, Ray untangles himself from the sleeping bag and rushes to the mouth of the cave. That’s when the canon goes off.

Carbine forgotten, Ray slips his knife into his hand and climbs out of the cave, scraping his knees on the sharp rock. The only sound out amongst the pines are his deep, heavy breaths and the hammering of his heart. He looks around. Curley is standing a few metres up the incline, a bunch of leaves in one hand and two bird eggs in the other. He regards Ray placidly.

Ray had felt well-rested upon awakening, but a mere minute of anxiety has sapped all his energy. He forces himself to take a deep breath as Curley hops down to meet him at the mouth of the cave. “I got these,” he says, handing Ray an egg.

They perch on the rocks and eat the eggs raw - Ray hasn’t wanted to risk starting a fire, and he certainly won’t with Curley around– That thought pulls him up short. The implication that there will be a time when Curley isn’t around. He shakes it off.

Eventually, warmed by the still-rising sun and Curley’s silent presence, Ray finds his tongue. He asks Curley about the Conscripts and what they’re doing down at the Barracks. In the light of day, the thought of going hunting for humans makes Ray feel nauseous; he’d been talking a big game last night. But realistically they’ll have to do something or they’ll both end up dead.

Curley explains that the Conscripts have pulled all the remaining supplies - food and first aid kits and weapons - from the Barracks. They’ve piled them all up beside the stone structure, seemingly unguarded, and have been using the Barracks as a shelter and base.

“That’s strange,” Ray says. “Surely anyone could just run up and steal their supplies.” He’d seen Hank run during training - so quick even Barkovitch wouldn't be able to catch him with a knife.

“They’ve got Rank watching over them.” Ray’s brow furrows. “The District 3 boy. But he doesn’t look like he’s in great shape.”

It doesn’t add up. That the Conscripts would ally with anyone this late in the Games, but the timid District 3 boy Barkovitch had been taunting? He’s expendable to them, of course. But their supplies probably aren’t. There has to be something else at play.

“Alright.” Ray sounds very decisive when he speaks. “Maybe we don’t have to hunt them down. What if we take away their supplies? See how well they fare living like the rest of us.”

Curley’s eyes light up.

Generally, while the Conscripts shine in weapons work and hand to hand combat they tend to lack the more basic survival skills. Being from, on average, more well-to-do districts they never had to learn to forage like Curley or fish like Ray. And without a food supply they’ll be weaker, disoriented, desperate. It should, if they’re successful, even the playing field a little. And - why not admit it, if only to himself - will spare Ray from directly having to kill anyone.

He can’t stop thinking about Pete’s words on the balcony that night. ‘I don’t think you’re like that.’ It irks Ray that someone knows him better than he knows himself.

They spend the morning foraging, fishing, and divvying up their supplies whilst they formulate a plan. More and more, Ray finds that Curley reminds him of his brother. The way he always hesitates before smiling, but once he gives into it it’s the biggest, beaming grin. He likes music, something Ray and his brother had both enjoyed when their father was around. He wants to be a doctor.

“They don’t really let you do that, in District 12,” he explains. “We don’t have a hospital or anything. We have healers and an apothecary, but nothing fancy.”

The hospital in 8 isn’t high tech, and more often than not people die of more serious injuries, but at least they have a hospital.

“I was going to try and join the national army, when I turn eighteen,” Curley continues. “I wouldn’t make enough to support my family in the mines. At least then I could send money home. But they don’t really draft in soldiers from 12, either.”

Ray hadn’t been aware they drafted in soldiers from anywhere except 2. The thought of joining the army, having to enforce the Capitol’s rules on his own neighbours, disgusts him, but he can hardly blame Curley. If he was trapped in 8 with no means of escape, no method of black market trading, and a large family to support he’d probably be begging them to send him off to point guns at District 5 trouble makers.

“Anyway, that doesn’t matter anymore.” Curley tears Ray’s brown paper in half so he can wrap a fish for himself and a fish for Ray for dinner. 

“Yeah, because after you win you’ll have more money than you’ll know what to do with,” Ray says.

Curley hesitates, then smiles.

They split their food equally, Ray gives Curley his sleeping bag and survival guide and a share of his meagre medical supplies. Curley tries to give Ray his sunglasses.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need them,” he says, waving off the offer.

“But what about at night? So you can see the camp?” Curley asks.

“At night?”

Curley slips the glasses onto Ray’s nose. Instead of tinting the landscape a muddy brown they fragment the world around him, like he’s looking through warped glass. 

“They’re night vision glasses,” Curley says. “The Conscripts have a couple of pairs, too. It’s why they hunt at night.”

Ray removes them and tucks them into the side of his pack. “So then what do I do if it’s sunny?” He jokes.

Curley removes his hat and holds it out.

“No, no,” Ray chuckles. “I’m kidding.”

But Curley keeps his arm extended. He’s fixed Ray with such an intense look; he wants him to take the hat. So Ray does. It has a circular brim, good coverage from the sun, and a string to secure it beneath his chin. Ray puts it on his head. “Looks good?” He asks.

“Yeah.” Curley seems all of a sudden very serious. “It does.”

Finally, Ray hands him the carbine.

“Are you sure?” Curley asks. “I can just light the fire–”

“I’m sure,” Ray says. “And remember, if you’re in any real danger don’t hesitate to fire. Forget the plan. Okay?”

“Okay.” Curley kicks at a patch of dirt, watching as it flops a couple of inches through the air. Then he places the carbine on the ground and throws his arms around Ray. Ray doesn’t hesitate to hug him back, but a wave of worry washes over him. What’s he doing? Leaving Curley alone? He should stay, protect him. Nothing else should matter. 

But Curley’s long past protecting. He was long past protecting the moment that soldier called his name.

“Please come back,” he whispers.

“I will,” Ray promises. “And you’ll be right here.”

“Yeah.”

Ray doesn’t look back as he walks away. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to go through with it if he looks back.

He’ll have a good vantage point on the Barracks from both the mountain and the woods. Whilst the woods will get him closer and offer more cover he opts for the mountain. Even if he’s seen he’ll have the high ground and can easily scramble off before his pursuers reach him. He keeps low at first, climbing twenty or so metres up the incline then walking along, round towards the Barracks and the lake. As he begins to draw closer he hikes higher, until eventually he breaks through the treeline. There’s another two hundred metres before the incline becomes almost vertical and Ray would have to climb with his hands. He gets a little higher, just so he has visibility over the treeline, then makes his way over to a rocky outcropping that he can crouch behind. 

From his new vantage point Ray has a clear view of the Barracks. Everything seems to be miniature, like a dollhouse, and Ray’s struck with the sick realisation that they probably sell toy models of arenas in the Capitol. He focuses on the Barracks. Three figures are lying down inside - District 2 and Barkovitch, he presumes. Just as Curley said, there’s a huge pile of supplies just south east of the Barracks, quite close to the base of the mountain. There’s someone standing near the pile, nervously clutching a spear - that must be District 3. The ground around the Barracks, and especially around the supply pile, has become severely pockmarked in the past few days.

He’s missing something, surely. For the Conscripts to sleep while a tiny fourteen year old who can barely lift his spear guards all their supplies, something else must be at play. Ray squints, trying to make out a rigged net or a patch of earth that looks like it’s covering up a hole. He can’t spot either.

Ray glances around the rest of the arena. From up here he can see the waterfall that feeds into the river that eventually becomes the stream that meanders through the orchard. He can see the orchard, where he left Curley, and where it fades into the woods. The field, dotted with stone structures, and the lake. The mountain curves around the entire east side of the lake, but on the north side is another field, this one thick with long grass, wild flowers, and bramble thickets. Wooden structures instead of stone. Ray wonders where Pete is. So long as that canon this morning wasn’t for him.

Oh god. Ray shivers, though the sun has barely begun to set and it’s not yet cold. He can’t bear the thought, which is stupid because Pete is dying. And, for Curley to make it out alive, he has to die. So Ray forces himself to focus on the task at hand, barring all thoughts of Pete from his mind.

The sun continues to set and Ray finds himself genuinely shivering. He crouches so that a rock takes the brunt of the wind and hugs his jacket more tightly about himself. Right on cue, just as the sun dips below the horizon, Curley puts the first part of their plan into motion: in the distance, the carbine fires. 

In an instant Stebbins is on his feet, followed closely by his District partner. It looks for a moment like he’s going to kick Barkovitch, but thinks better of it and leans down to rouse him. They stoop to don packs and pick up weapons, then start to head towards the orchard, the direction of the gunshot. Birds are still scattering, giving them a good idea of where the shooter - where Ray Garraty - is located. 

They seem to be slightly worse for wear after the bat attack. Barkovitch walks with a slight limp and the District 2 girl is heavily favouring one arm. He can see Stebbins' skin is marred with scars and bruises, but this doesn’t seem to have affected him in any way beyond aesthetically.

They pause next to the supply pile. Even from this distance Ray can hear them shouting at the District 3 boy, though he can’t hear their exact words. The general consensus seems to be that he should come with them. Ray watches as, ever so slowly, as if choosing his steps, he makes his way across the pockmarked earth and joins the Conscripts. Then they race off towards the orchard.

Now, Ray thinks, my turn.

He considers climbing back down the mountain and carting the supplies, one at time, to the lake, but even if he had all night to work at that he’d only manage about half the pile. He could set the whole thing ablaze, provided somewhere in there is some liquid paraffin. Neither of these methods seems particularly lucrative.

As darkness descends, a bugle sounds the sky displays today's fallen tribute. It’s not Pete. That comforts Ray, despite him knowing it shouldn't.

His vision now dim, Ray slips on Curley’s glasses. While they fragmented the daylight they do the opposite in the dark; Ray finds his vision is sharp and clear. He can see each individual tree bordering the field. And the figure darting across it!

Ray can tell from the way he runs it’s Hank. Ray hasn’t seen him since they entered the arena. Up close he’s sure he looks a mess, but darting across the field he seems strong, almost elegant. He stops a good distance from the supply pile. Then, just as the District 3 boy had done, he picks his way very, very cautiously towards it. Sometimes taking long steps, sometimes shuffling his feet a few inches. At one point he rocks back on his heels and jumps. When he lands he overshoots, and before his hands hit the ground he screams. It shocks Ray, who’s grown quite accustomed to the silence of the mountain over the past few hours. To scream out in the open like that, Hank must have thought he was a dead man. What could possibly give him that impression? It was like he knew he’d stepped on a landmine…

The ground around the Barracks - where their start podiums were. The ground around the supply pile. District 3, known for their technological prowess. The Conscripts must have got him to rejuvenate the landmines around the podiums and bury them to protect the supply pile. Inconvenient, sure, but Ray has to admit it’s a smart move. A tactical move.

Hank, having avoided being pulverised by a landmine, has reached the supply pile. Ray can’t see what he’s taking, but he hovers around for a couple of minutes before replicating his route back through the mines and running off into the woods.

In the distance Ray spies a trail of smoke curling up into the clouds. The second part of their plan. He has to act now.

The mines pretty much negate either of Ray’s half-baked plans. He doesn’t trust himself to replicate Hank’s journey through the minefield, and even if by some miracle he could manage it once he’d never make his way back out again. He could throw something down there, try to trigger one mine and hope it causes a chain reaction. That would be leaving a lot up to fate, though. Ray doesn’t know if he’s really a big believer in fate. What he needs is the ability to throw a lot of things down at once…

Above Ray, where the mountain gets steep, is a sheer path composed entirely of small rocks, held in place only by the stillness of their neighbours. Presumably a rock slide when it rains. But maybe, with a bit of help, they don’t need to wait for the rain.

There are very few trees between Ray and the supply pile, the mountain treeline having tapered off thirty metres back. There are a few rocky outcrops, but not too many, the incline should be steep enough to carry anything with enough momentum over them.

Aware that this could go horribly wrong, Ray begins to clamber higher up the face of the mountain. The incline doesn’t bother him, but he does become very aware that his pants are starting to chafe on the inside of his thighs. For some reason that feels worse than losing a chunk of his side.

He draws level with the rocky path, then climbs another twenty metres. The face of the mountain is quite sheer here, and he has to hang on with his hands. Ray inches his way over to the rocks. At first he sticks a hand out, shoving a few rocks down the mountain. They skitter and crash into each other, but ultimately end up rolling harmlessly onto a grassy outcrop. Gripping a rock slightly above his head, Ray hauls himself up until he’s standing on one foot, leaning out slightly into the rock path. He brings his boot down, hard and repeatedly, into the rocky stream.

Rocks begin to tumble down the mountainside, quick and smooth. They bounce over the outcrops, racing each other to be the first to the bottom. As the first few rocks skitter into the field Ray is rewarded with the echoing boom of a landmine, accompanied by a hot flash of orange. Then another. Then another.

He’s so preoccupied enjoying his success he almost fails to notice the effect these monumental tremors are having on the rockslide he started. As rocks continue to fall, more rush in to take their place, encouraged by the shaking earth below. The rock stream becomes faster, wider. Rocks begin to rain down on Ray’s shoulders, bouncing off the brim of Curley’s hat. 

This would be an awful way to die, Ray thinks, before his hand is knocked from its rivet and falls backwards into the landslide.

Chapter Text

Ray is aware of the pain before he’s even fully conscious. His chest and cheek are being pressed down into an uncomfortable, rough surface. A stiff weight bears down on him from every side. Being able to think straight enough to rouse himself is difficult, the one thought that manages to clear the fog being, ‘I think I have a concussion.’

Slowly, groggily, Ray locates his arms and begins to move them. It hurts. But as he shifts them around the weight lessens. Eventually he has enough space to bend his arms beneath him and push himself up. His arms shake and for a moment he thinks he’s going to collapse back into the pile of rocks beneath him, but he feels something shift off his back and suddenly the cool morning air hits his raw face. His head feels so heavy.

It’s still dark. The night vision glasses are perched on Ray’s nose still, but one of the lenses has badly cracked, the plastic cutting into Ray’s cheek. With a wince, he pulls them off. There’s blood dripping from his nose, but it doesn’t feel broken. Or maybe his nose isn’t bleeding at all; he can’t really differentiate that blood from the blood that’s pooled around his temple.

Ray’s hand starts to raise, but halts a few centimetres from his face. He could have a concussion. Or he could have cracked his skull. If it’s the latter he really doesn’t want to know. Better to live in blissful ignorance and drop dead later. He drops his hand back to his lap.

Rolling his shoulders, Ray is immediately hit with a wave of fiery pain that envelopes his chest. Bruised ribs, certainly. Probably broken. For what it’s worth, his legs have allowed him to sit quite neatly in a kneeling position for several minutes now without anything more than a dull ache. At least he’ll have something to walk on. He rolls one sleeve up to his elbow. His skin is badly bruised red and purple, with only glimpses of white flesh between bruises, but cuts are minimal. All things considered, he appears to have got off pretty lightly.

Provided that is blood on his temple, and not brains.

Ray forces himself to stand up. His ribs explode with pain, and his thighs strain with the effort, but his body can hold him. His pack is still on his back, Curley’s hat still tied around his neck. He snaps the sharp, bloodied piece of plastic from the night vision glasses and puts them back on. Okay, he thinks, time to get out of here.

If standing was a difficult task, walking is herculean. Ray’s head spins and each time his feet make contact with the earth his ribs burn. Once he’s made his way through the rocky ledges and back onto the grassy decline he finds himself on his hands and knees, dragging himself down the mountainside. He thinks, ‘God, I need to throw up,’ then thinks, ‘I still get dinner out my pack,’ followed by, ‘I should throw up first.’ He does neither, however, and continues crawling.

He reaches the treeline quite quickly, however he’s not as far south as he would have liked to be. Trying to travel along the steep face of the mountain at a crawl was almost impossible, so he’d headed almost directly downwards. Meaning he’s mere metres away from the singed pile that was once the Conscripts supplies when they run into view.

Ray ducks behind a fir and thinks, ‘How lucky. I was probably only unconscious for a few minutes.’

He’s still too far away to properly hear what’s being said and he suspects his hearing has been dampened a little by the explosions anyway. Instead he watches. 

Stebbins stops a respectable distance from the pile, still wary of the mines, and simply regards the scene. Barkovitch has no such reservations and dashes straight across the torn earth, sifting through the ashes. Him, Ray can hear, “What the fuck? How did this happen? What did you do?” He rounds on the District 3 boy and begins shouting. Stebbins steps in, pushing Barkovitch to the ground with one hand. The District 3 boy turns to Stebbins then - to thank him? To explain himself? Ray can’t tell - and Stebbins reaches out and touches his face. As he pulls the boy close, Ray grows confused - is he going to kiss him? - but as he draws the boy’s head towards his chest he brings his other hand up to rest on his shoulder. Then, with a sharp twist, he snaps his neck.

A few seconds later, the canon fires.

Ray finds himself transfixed. That can’t have been Stebbins’ first kill, but despite his strength and stature Ray hadn’t actually seen him engage with another tribute until now. It was so sudden, so powerful. He can’t help but wonder what Stebbins has done to Pete.

The Conscripts move over to the Barracks, allowing a hovercraft to remove District 3’s body. Ray stays put. If he moves he risks them noticing him and he’s in no position to play chase. The District 2 girl seems relatively unbothered by this turn of events. She checks through her pack and begins cleaning her weapons with a handful of dewy grass. Stebbins seems like he wants to lie back and relax, but Barkovitch is basically on top of him. Eventually Stebbins jumps up, towering over Barkovitch. “Fuck off then!” Ray certainly heard that.

Barkovitch seems to backpedal, grovel. He holds his hands up, meekly approaching Stebbins. Stebbins draws a sword. He makes no show of aggression with it, but Barkovitch knows when he’s beat. He slinks off towards the orchard. Ray wonders if he’s witnessing the inevitable breakup of the Conscripts’ alliance. Or perhaps just a poorly negotiated bathroom break.

Enough time passes for dawn to break. District 2 set off together, into the woods. Ray’s aware that if he wants to make a move, and he does, now is the time to do so, but the concussion is hitting him hard and all he really wants to do is go to sleep. By the time he’s finally convinced himself to get up and go there’s movement out in the field again.

It’s not the Conscripts, but Hank, darting back out towards the supply pile, or what’s left of it. He stops and stares at the scene before him, a bemused smirk on his face, then marches over to the pile and begins picking through it. Unlike the Conscripts, who clearly wrote the singed supplies off as useless, Hank manages to find a mostly unmelted awl and a couple of tins of meat amongst the wreckage. 

Up close he does look a little worse for wear. Tired and not so steady on his feet as his running would imply. But he’s very clearly alive, which is more than Ray can say for himself.

Ray has the sudden notion to enlist him as an ally. He seemed nice during training, he’s clearly resourceful. And now that the Conscripts are basically out of the picture they’d be the largest allegiance in the Games. Making an ally this late in the Games is unwise, but Ray isn’t exactly thinking clearly, so he makes his way through the trees until he emerges on the other side of the pile. Hank freezes when he sees him, not even thinking to brandish the awl in his hand.

“Hey,” Ray says, but it comes out as a pained wheeze. He tries again, “Hey. Like what I’ve done with the place?”

Hank turns and immediately flees into the woods. Ray wouldn’t be able to follow him if he tried, but he has a pretty good idea of what Hank thinks about an alliance, so there’s no need.

Definitely have brains running down my face, he thinks as he removes the night vision glasses.

Ray had agreed to meet Curley back in the orchard, near where the fruit trees meet the firs, so he heads back up the mountain by a few metres and begins his slow, trudging walk back. Curley should be there by now. Ray hopes he’s not worrying about him, he hopes he knows the canon fire wasn’t for him. Still, the thought keeps Ray moving even when he’s desperate to sit down for a break.

A cool morning has settled over the area by the time Ray reaches the river. Only now does he allow himself a break, drinking from his canteen, refilling it, then eating some of the greens and roots he and Curley gathered yesterday. The thought of cold, raw fish makes him feel sick, so he tucks it back into his bag.

Ray hops across the river to reach a small pool of water trapped in a divot. It’s placid, unlike the river, and allows him to get a good look at his face. His nose has been bleeding, so has his temple, but his skull seems to be in good shape. His temple wound, upon inspection, is barely more than a nick. But there is a raised bump where he clearly got clocked by a heavy rock, and his left eye is blackened.

He washes the blood from his face and hair and continues down to the orchard.

They didn’t set an exact meeting point, so Ray tries not to worry too much when he doesn’t immediately see Curley. He walks up to their cave, then back down into the orchard where he follows the river until it becomes a stream. Then he doubles back again, walking the line between the orchard and the fir trees. When there’s still no sign of him Ray returns to the cave. Sitting atop it, he has a pretty good view through the fir trees into the orchard, he’ll surely notice when Curley comes by. He’s just being careful, Ray tells himself, you haven’t heard the canon. It’s okay.

Though he was unconscious for a while, he doesn’t know how long…

But Barkovitch headed back into the orchard. Why would he do that, if they’d found Curley to be the fire lighter?

Ray forces himself to stay put. There’s no use in them both getting lost. He drinks more water, presses a wet strip of bandage against his sore head, and even sets up a few snares a little distance away from the cave.

Morning turns to midday which turns to afternoon. Since his snare-setting endeavour, Ray hasn’t moved an inch. He’s stared at the same spot on the forest floor, feeling dazed. He either needs to crawl into the cave and get some sleep or head out and start looking for Curley. He knows he won’t be able to do the former until he does the latter.

He makes a quick detour to check his snares and is surprised to find a single squirrel. Usually he and Jan will leave their snares overnight, and the prey will be dead by the time they come to collect it. This squirrel still wriggles around, its foot caught in the wire. 

Ray lifts his knife. He considers just cutting the thing free. There are plenty of fish and for some reason he’s never felt this kind of sympathy for them. But what if the Gamemakers decide to flood the river? What if they introduce a new predator that eats all the fish? What if Ray ends up trapped up a tree with no means to gather greens or fish? What if–

He slits its throat.

Your life is worth more than the squirrels, he tells himself, though he doesn’t believe it.

Not wanting to risk a fire while he has important search (and maybe rescue) work to be getting on with, Ray wraps the squirrel in his paper and eats the fish.

He remembers the rough location of Curley’s decoy fire and sets off towards it. Most likely he ran into trouble - the Conscripts, or perhaps just Barkovitch, or some other predator - and decided to hide out somewhere along the way. When he sees a singed bullet mark in a tree he knows he’s on the right path. He’d like to do something about his footsteps, so as not to make himself so obvious, but much as he tries to step more lightly it’s impossible. His back muscles are so sore each time one of his feet meets the ground they immediately relax, reveling in their half-second break. At least it will let Curley know he’s coming.

When he spots the fire through the trees, now a lightly smoldering pile of ash, he stops. Curley has to be somewhere around here. He has to–

A gunshot sharpens Ray’s senses. He whips round, sprinting north towards the sound. In a slight clearing he lays eyes on the scene: Barkovitch, no weapon in hand, seemingly just standing there. Curley with the gun pointed at him, a wisp of smoke curling from the barrel. He waits for Barkovitch to fall, but he doesn’t.

The words, “Shoot him again,” are on Ray’s lips, when Curley drops to the floor. And that’s when Ray sees the knife in his chest.