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His palms are sweaty. He's too old—he can't sit with his younger siblings. He can feel his mother's gaze on his neck, he can feel the sweat dripping off his forehead. The voice of the woman on the stage drowns out, and is instead replaced by a buzzing sound. It burns. It swallows his ears whole—his vision is shaking.
There's a collection of quiet gasps in the crowd.
A young girl, most likely around the age of 13, shakily steps out away from what looks to be her sister. Her eyes are blown wide, her hands visibly trembling as she wraps her arms over herself.
"She's so young," Hunk whispers beside him.
Lance just bites his lip. It's a common thing—young children being selected. It's devastating, and countless times parents just stand behind, just watch as their children are whisked away to certain death.
The young girl looks frantically between the crowd, and she gasps in shock when the Peacekeepers behind her push her forward. She's so small, smaller than a 13-year old should be.
As she makes her way to the stage, nobody volunteers for her. Nobody else wants to be chosen either.
The Escort on the stage delicately puts her hand on the girl's back. Lance still doesn't know her name, or either of their names. His mind is blank. He can hardly think. Continuously glancing back towards his siblings in the other rows, his eyes suddenly catch onto a Peacekeeper's. The Peacekeeper grips their weapon just slightly tighter, subtle but noticeable. Lance gulps, and turns back to the stage quickly.
The girl on stage is crying—albeit silently, the tears streaming down her face as she sniffles and tries to wipe them away. She looks so small and fragile, and Lance feels guilty for thanking the heavens that it isn't his sister up there.
"And now," the Escort says, expectantly, as her hand hovers over the other bowl, "the boys."
The audience holds their breaths as the Escort twirls her hand over the collection of slips. She reaches down, plucks one from the middle with her strangely long nails, and holds it up for everyone to see.
Lance's breath catches in his throat as the Escort opens it, a happily little smile on her face that should definitely not be there. She reads the name, glances up over the slip with her beady, contact-colored purple eyes, and clears her throat.
"Hunk Garett!"
And his entire world stops.
He can't breathe, can't think, and he turns slowly to look at his friend. Hunk is frozen stiff, his eyes moving across the crowd in front of him. Everyone is turning to him, some wearing pitiful gazes and some stoic.
The Peacekeepers move when Hunk doesn't. They shove through the crowd, grabbing Hunk by each arm. He gasps, trying to wrestle out of their grips but the Peacekeepers only pull him to the middle. The Escort is smiling down at him, looking ecstatic, and the female Tribute is watching with wide eyes.
"No..." Lance whispers shakily to himself as Hunk is dragged further and further. He's kicking, trying to look back at Lance and everyone else, but nobody is moving. Nobody is doing anything—
—then Lance is moving, he's running to the center, and he's shouting.
"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"
Silence. Absolute, utter silence.
And then a scream.
It's his siblings—they're shouting at him to change his mind but he can't once he's said it, and the Peacekeepers are letting go of Hunk and moving to grab him. Except they don't have to pull him along, because he walks willingly, trying to keep his chin held high for the cameras. He doesn't want to look weak when they broadcast District 11's Reaping all across Panem.
Suddenly, someone grabs his arm. He turns, and the Peacekeepers are about to knock the shit out of whoever touched him—but it's Hunk, and the Peacekeepers pause just long enough for Lance to get two words out.
"Protect them," he whispers, and Hunk nods, because he knows who he's talking about.
The Peacekeepers shove him forward, and pull Hunk back, and once Lance is on stage he exhales—curses himself for giving himself up because his family needs him, but Hunk is safe, his friend is safe.
"A-a volunteer!" the Escort stammers, obviously surprised, because nobody ever wants to volunteer unless you're a Career District. "How unexpected! What's your name, dear?"
She's waiting, everyone else is waiting.
His throat feels dry as he says, "Lance McClain."
"Well, Lance," the Escort chuckles, "congratulations!"—except it feels like anything but a congratulations.
She turns to the crowd, and gestures for the two Tributes to shake hands—a tradition.
Lance turns, and grasps the young girl's hand in his own. Hers is shaking, and he's sure his is too.
"A round of applause for our two tributes of District 11!" calls the Escort, and begins to clap. Except no one else claps, and she's left standing there awkwardly.
Instead, the collection of citizens in District 11 raise their closed fists, and place them firmly over their hearts. Lance suddenly feels like crying, because the symbol is one of bravery, but also a symbol of passing. A goodbye.
The Peacekeepers begin to pull them away, to take him back into the area where their families will get to say goodbye. But then a piercing voice echoes through the crowd, shouts its way to Lance's ears, and he gasps—it's his sister. He tries to shout back, but the Peacekeepers grab onto them, and shove them back. The door slams shut, and everyone is gone from sight.
So he waits, he waits for what seems forever—until the doors slam open and his siblings are jumping into his arms and crying. His sister, who had just barely turned 12, is weeping the most, her small arms wrapped around his waist. His brothers, twins, both age 9, are trying to climb up his body. He picks one up, and hugs him tightly, kissing the top of his head.
"It should've been me," his brother cries, in between sobs and shaky hiccups.
"No, no," Lance chuckles, trying not to cry himself. "You're too young. You're lucky you weren't chosen." He peels away from his brothers, and kneels down in front of his sister. She's sniffling, wiping away snot from her face, and he reaches down and ruffles her wild hair with a tiny smile.
"Why did you volunteer?" she whispers, like he's betrayed her.
He's failing himself—his eyes are watering and threatening to overflow. He bends down, kissing her sweaty forehead. "Hey," he whispers, "you think I'd let Hunk in there after all he's done for us?" She purses her lips, turns away, but doesn't deny it. "He's going to take good care of you, okay?"
"Don't say that like you're not coming back," she hisses sharply, and ouch, she's hard-skinned for a 12-year old. "You're gonna win, right?"
Lance pauses because, no, he's not sure, nobody's ever sure who's gonna win (there's been a handful of surprises over the years).
"Yeah. I'm gonna win."
His siblings pull away on account of time, and his mother runs to engulf him in an embrace. Her arms are thick and her hugs are even thicker, and he can't even breathe even once she lets go.
Her hands go to his face. "Oh, mi hijo..." she murmurs, kissing his cheeks. "Why?" It's said in one breath, and Lance flutters his eyes shut.
"I'm sorry, Mamá," he says, voice shaking. "But... I couldn't let Hunk go in there."
His mama shakes his head. "You are a good son," she says, and she's crying—it breaks his heart. "I do not deserve a son like you."
Lance gently grasps his mother's wrists, leaning into the hands on his cheeks. "Hunk will take care of you all. I swear. He will."
It's then when he notices his aunt and cousins are nowhere to be found—and he remembers: only immediately family allowed. He squeezes his eyes shut to prevent tears, because he might never get to see his little cousins ever again, or the rest of his family, and it'll be up to his siblings to provide food and enter their names multiple times just to feed themselves. He thinks of his sister, his 12-year old sister, and how she's just barely old enough to be Reaped. She can enter her name as many times as need be.
Then he remembers that if he dies, that's one less mouth to feed. His chest hurts.
When his time is up and his family is forced out, his siblings refuse. The Peacekeepers have to pick them up over their shoulders and drag them away, and even then his siblings scream and shout and pull and kick. His mother tries her hardest to hug him one last time, but before she can even touch him she's dragged away.
The doors slam shut, and Lance buries his face in his hands.
But then they open again, and Hunk is breathless once his eyes lay upon Lance.
"You idiot! " Hunk exclaims. "Why did you volunteer for me!?"
"I wasn't going to let you go in there!"
"And you'd let yourself? " Hunk throws his hands in the air. "You have a family, your siblings—your sister, what are you going to do about them? "
Lance takes a deep breath, and now he knows he's crying. "You'll take care of them, right?" He's breathless, he can barely talk. "Right? Hunk, you have to."
"Yeah, yeah," Hunk says. "Yeah, I will. I swear."
There's a silence between them for a few moments, and then they're running into each other's arms and hugging. Hunk is huge, his arms wrapping around Lance's back hard enough to snap him in half. Lance sniffles, burying his face in his shirt.
"I'm sorry."
"Just win."
Then the door slam open and Peacekeepers trickle in, pulling them apart. Lance feels like he's going to split in two from how hard one tugs him back, and Hunk is struggling and pulling.
"Hunk!" Lance shouts, kicking against the one holding onto his neck. "Hunk, take care of them! Make sure they eat! Make sure they're safe! "
"Lanc—!" He's cut off by the sound of slamming doors.
And Lance is all alone.
On the train, the Escort—whose name is Nyma, Lance remembers—is gone, off somewhere else on the train doing who knows what.
Lance sits in what he believes is the most comfortable chair in the world, across from the other tribute. He still can't remember her name, and she looks so small and innocent sitting in that chair. In her hands is a glass of water, half-full, but it's shaking along with her hands.
"What's—" he starts, but his voice gives out. She glances up, and he tries again, "What's... your name?"
She frowns, looking back down into the glass. "...They announced it super-loud at the Reaping..."
Lance bites the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, but... I didn't catch it."
She narrows her eyes at him, and he's sure she thinks he's lying, but then she just sighs and mumbles, "Mac."
"I'm—"
"Lance," she cuts him off. "I know."
He bites his lip, and shuts up.
"You volunteered for that big guy," Mac continues, and she sounds almost amazed. "Why?"
"I care about him," is what he replies automatically. "He's been my best friend for as long as I can remember."
Mac nods, and finally takes a sip of the water. She sighs once she's swallowed it, like it's the best thing she's ever tasted. Considering Capitol-quality, it probably is.
"I saw your family," she says, licking her lips; Lance can see the cracks and sores on them. "It's very big."
Lance smiles, the thought of his mama filling his mind. "Yeah..." he says softly. "Though only immediate family is allowed to say goodbye... I entered my name a lot to get tessera." He pauses, realizes he's been rambling, and then smiles at the girl across from him. "What about your family?"
Mac stiffens, and Lance wonders if he's made a mistake.
"It's only my sister and I," she says. "She's 18, but she's very sick. She couldn't come see me before I left."
"Oh..." Lance breathes. "I'm sorry."
Mac just shakes her head. Lance is about to say something else, but then Nyma comes into the room, waving her hands all over the place.
"Oh, dinner is ready!" she says happily, her purple eyes sparkling. "Come, come, children!" She's about to turn away, but gasps sharply. "Oh! I almost forgot!" She turns, beaming. "I've managed to get Shiro awake! Ugh, that man sleeps a lot! "
When she leaves into the other car of the train, Lance stands. His stomach is grumbling, and he may as well eat. Mac follows him, and then tugs on his shirt.
"Who's Shiro?" she questions.
"Our mentor," he replies.
She makes a questioning noise, but Lance only pats her head before hopping into the next train car.
The sight that meets him is one to behold—sparkling diamond chandeliers over a transparent glass table. Set across the table is the widest arrangement of food Lance has ever seen, and what looks like real turkey is set in the center. The bread doesn't look stale, and the plates are porcelain and Lance is 100% sure he could use them as mirrors.
Nyma is sitting at the table, her hands folded across her lap. In the seat at the end sits Takashi Shirogane—Shiro, as the Capitol and all of Panem have come to call him—the only alive Victor of District 11.
(The others had died, Lance remembers, by either suicide, drugs, or punishment from the Capitol on account of stunts pulled during the Games. How disgusting.)
The first noticeable thing about him is the prosthetic arm. Lance doesn't exactly know how he got it, but the local rumor is that he cut it off himself after a deadly infection; Lance is 90% sure that isn't true. But it was gone when the Games ended, and the Capitol granted him with a brand new prosthetic.
Right now, at the table, he looks tired. Bags are noticeably formed under his eyes, and scars litter his body. But, despite all, he looks strong; Lance assumes that was an advantage in the Games.
"Sit!" Nyma encourages, gesturing towards the empty chairs.
Mac is the first to move, abandoning her glass of water and instead hurriedly taking a seat across from Nyma. She starts filling her plate, not even pausing to wait until she has everything she wants before she's gnawing into a piece of turkey. Nyma scowls, looking disgusted.
Lance moves slower, sitting closer towards Shiro. The Victor is silent, gazing down at his empty plate.
"You're our Mentor?" he asks, though the answer is obvious.
Shiro licks his lips, and glances up. His answer is hesitant, "Yeah."
Mac pauses in the middle of eating, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You're 'pposed to give us advice, right?" she asks, her mouth full.
Nyma groans.
Shiro nods.
Mac glances from side to side. "Well...? What advice do you have?"
The table is silent. Everyone's eyes are on Shiro, even Nyma's. No one dares to breathe, to take another bite, not even Mac.
Then, he sighs. "Don't get attached to anyone."
Shiro gets up from the table and leaves without another word.
The next time Lance sees Shiro is when he walks in on him giving Mac a lecture.
When he steps in, Shiro looks surprised to see him standing there. Lance blinks, glancing between Mac and Shiro, and then raises an eyebrow, "Am I missing something here?"
Mac turns, kicking her short legs back and forth. "Shiro was telling me about the Cornucopia."
Lance moves, taking a seat next to Mac, and looks at Shiro expectantly. When he doesn't say anything, Lance frowns in confusion, "Well, you're our Mentor, right, tough guy? Mentor us."
There's something in Shiro's eyes Lance can't pin down—is it regret? is it fear? is it pain?—but he complies.
The three sit there all the way until the Capitol.
From Shiro's lecture, Lance remembers only a handful of things:
- Don't get attached.
- Don't go into the Cornucopia when the Games begin.
- Find a water source.
Everything else is just a blur in his mind.
Oh well. He'll just wing it.
He was hoping he'd end up with the super hot stylist but no, she had to go to Mac. He was stuck with this one.
Lance scowls up at the most ridiculous mustache he's ever seen in his life.
"I'm Coran, your stylist!" he exclaims, happily holding up a pair of scissors and a can of... something. "My job is to get you looking all nice for the Tribute Parade!"
"My District is agriculture," Lance deadpans. "What the hell are you going to do with that?"
Coran blinks. "I was thinking farmers? But golden? How does that sound!"
He sounds so excited that Lance finds it hard to say no. So he doesn't.
The Tribute Parade passes by in a blur. All he remembers is glimmering costumes, loud shouting, and flowers being thrown across the road from the crowd. He remembers grabbing Mac's hand and holding them up in the air. He remembers the speech given by President Zarkon, and how the Capitol cheered for him that day.
(He remembers how the stupid golden farmer outfit stuck to his sweaty skin afterwards, and how long he had to stay in that fancy shower until all the makeup and spray glitter came off.)
That night, he and Mac are permitted to watch the Reapings of the other Districts. Some are unsurprising, male and female tributes being chosen with no one to volunteer for them. But a few are different, even if just slightly.
District 1's Reaping is nothing to talk about—just the usual Careers volunteering for the Games, as they had been training for them practically their entire lives. District 2's isn't all that either (except the male tribute with the weirdly, stupidly pretty face and the stupid mullet pisses Lance off).
In District 3, a 17-year old girl is chosen. Before she can walk up to the stage however, a short person jumps up onto the stage and declares they volunteer. The original tribute looks absolutely shocked, but also elated. The short person introduces themself as Pidge, despite the Peacekeepers saying that their real name is Katie—Katie Holt, the younger sibling of a previous tribute who had died in the Games, Matt Holt.
In District 4, the male tribute, King, is punched by a Peacekeeper on the way up to the stage for trying to run away.
In District 7, the female tribute, Soara, falls on the way up to the stage and injures herself.
Then it comes to District 11—Mac's name is called and her face has probably won the hearts of the Capitol already: heartbroken and terrified, and Lance is sure that's why Shiro suggested she play the role of the innocent little girl. Hunk's name is called next, and Lance's volunteering follows. Screams from his siblings pierce his ears, and then it ends.
District 12's Reaping isn't exactly odd itself, but the tributes. Brother and sister, Rax and Shay. All by chance. Lance could only imagine what would've happened if his sister had been Reaped and gone into the Games instead of Mac.
He doesn't want to think about it.
The next day comes the Training Center, and Lance can finally see all the tributes in person. For three consecutive days the tributes must train in an underground gymnasium filled with training stations and obstacle courses. The most experience Lance has had with any kind of weapon is a sickle—except he can't find any hint of a sickle in the Training Area.
Mac spends her time on the first day with the knots and identifying poisonous plants. Her angle, Lance assumes, is stealth.
Lance, moving from station to station for a sense of versatility, spots Mullet-Boy from District 2 at the sword-fighting station. He's battling with the expert stationed there—a young woman.
His sword is red, gripped firmly in his hands, and his mullet is tied back with a band into a ponytail. Lance frowns—he's not really sure what exactly pisses him off about the guy. Maybe it's the attitude he carries, or the way his eyes scream I'm better than you every time he looks at Lance.
(Okay, maybe he's exaggerating, but once they get into the arena they'll be killing each other. He thinks it's okay to assume a few things.)
Then Mullet-Boy has successfully knocked the expert to the ground, holding the sword to his neck. The expert at the station rushes to halt things, and Mullet-Boy hesitantly pulls his sword away, letting the expert take it in her hands. He's panting, breathless, and pulls the band out of his hair. The way he shakes his head to flip his hair, reaches up to fluff the back out, has Lance's blood boiling.
He thinks he's so much better. Him and his stupid anger issues and his stupid hair and his face—
Lance scowls, and moves onto the camouflage station. He spends most of the day watching Mullet-Boy and the stations he goes to. He's his rival, after all, and rivals have to face off sooner or later.
"Are you scared?" Mac asks, softly. She's dressed in a silk nightgown, the sleeves hanging off her hands.
Lance tilts his head up, and thinks of home.
"Yes."
Mac nods. "Me too."
The second day is when Lance finally manages to catch Mullet-Boy at his sword-fighting station.
Lance grabs onto his wrist before he can pick up his favorite red sword. Mullet-Boy looks both angry and stunned, his eyebrows furrowed together as he turns to glare at him.
"Fight me," Lance blurts out. "Sword fighting."
Mullet-Boy blinks once, twice, and then says, "Tributes can't fight before the Games."
Lance feels heat creep up his neck. "Then I'll bet I'm better at you with swords!" Which is a total lie, because Lance has never once touched a sword in his life.
There's other tributes watching them, he can feel their eyes and see them getting closer out of the corner of his eyes.
Mullet-Boy narrows his eyes. "Just who the hell are you? "
Lance scoffs, putting a hand over his chest (you'd think people've heard of him, him being one of the only volunteers in the Games and all!). "I'm Lance! Maybe you haven't heard of me?" Confidence. Confidence will win Panem over, he hears Shiro's voice in his head say, and maybe hearing voices is worrying now that he thinks about it. "Serial lady-killer, strongest man on Earth?" He flexes to emphasize, though nobody really looks impressed.
Mullet-Boy rolls his eyes. "I have training to do."
That was not the response Lance was expecting. He sputters, but tries to keep ahold of his confident aura. "Yeah, run away! Just wait until I defeat you in the arena!"
Then once Mullet-Boy is gone, Lance groans and slaps his forehead. He's an idiot.
Mac nudges him in the elbow, a perfectly-tied knot in her hands. "Good job, serial lady-killer," she snorts.
"We can form an alliance with someone," Mac suggests, her knees tucked to her chest. "Maybe with the Careers if we're lucky enough, like that guy from District 2—"
"There is no way I'm forming an alliance with Mullet-Boy!" Lance interrupts.
Mac pouts. "He looks good with a sword. He's been training for this for a while, y'know." She scratches the back of her head. "It wouldn't hurt to have help inside the arena."
"There's sponsors," Lance points out.
She sighs at him. "You're never gonna get any sponsors if you keep up this rivalry-stuff with that guy," she says, matter-of-factly. "It just makes you look stupid."
"It is not! It's a friendly rivalry!"
"You nearly tried to kill him at the end of training today."
"Your point?"
"You met him a day ago. You can't possibly form a rivalry with someone in that amount of time."
Lance shrugs. "Whatever. You're like 12."
Mac narrows her eyes. "I'm 13."
"Same thing."
"Shiro, how did you win your Games?" Mac asks the morning of their third day.
Shiro promptly chokes on his food, and spends the next two minutes coughing and taking sips of water.
"Can't you—" he says, and pauses to swallow, "—just watch the broadcast?"
Mac shrugs, and Lance thinks about how different she looks now compared to when she was Reaped. "I did, but it doesn't really show what happened as well as someone who was in it can."
Shiro stares down at his plate. "It's a long story."
Mac looks at the clock. It's 7 AM, and training begins at 10 AM sharp.
"We have time."
The last remaining tributes of the 50th Hunger Games—Matt Holt from District 4 and Takashi Shirogane from District 11—had been a team throughout the course of the Games. They worked together, bonded together, until there were only two left.
And there could only be one winner.
According to the Capitol, in a blaze of rage and greed, Shiro lashed out and killed his friend—making him the victor.
According to Shiro, however, the last tribute had cut off Shiro's arm in an attempt to slow him down, and he was dying from blood loss. Matt was beside him, stabbed in the chest, barely on the brink of life. The two were destined for certain doom.
"Kill me. Maybe then you'll have a chance."
"W-Wh—No. You have a family to go back to."
"I'm dead, Shiro."
"No, I.... I won't—"
"Shiro. Please."
"...."
"...Shiro."
"...I'm sorry."
"The winner of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, Takashi Shirogane from District 11!"
"My goal is to win," Mullet-Boy says. "I've been training for this my entire life, and I'm not going to let that go to waste."
The interviewer hums, and leans in, wagging his finger at him. "Well, Keith, I'm sure your family is very proud of you."
Mullet-Boy—or Keith, apparently (what a stupid name, Lance thinks)—suddenly pauses, and stares at his lap.
The interviewer notices the action, and leers in curiously. "Keith?"
Keith swallows visibly. "I have no family. They died when I was born." He looks up. "The Capitol has been very kind to me, assigning someone to raise me and train me. I'm very lucky."
The crowd goes nuts, and Lance scowls at the TV.
Two can play at that game, Keith.
"I'm here to avenge my brother," Pidge says firmly, their eyes sharp. "And even if I get executed for doing it, I have to."
"Do you really have to?" the interviewer pries. "I mean, it's not going to bring your brother back. He was Reaped, he had no choice—"
"I have to," Pidge repeats, and they look like they're about to hit him. "Because he's my brother, and he's the only reason I'm here."
Then they stand, and walk off the stage.
"So, are you nervous for the Games, Lance?"
He chuckles, flipping his hair, and leans back in his seat. The crowd before him watches.
"Nervous? Not at all. I know I'll do fine."
His interviewer nods approvingly. "Confidence. That's good in a man." He leans in. "So, Lance, is there anyone special in your life? Maybe a little lady back at home?"
Lance grins. "The only lady back at home for me is my sister," he says, and leans up a little. "I'm doing this all for her and my family, after all."
The crowd makes an aww sound. The interviewer puts a hand to his chest.
"How touching," he says, voice soft.
"Though my stylist, Allura, is pretty fine," Lance says, as an afterthought.
The interviewer and crowd burst into laughter, and the interviewer grabs onto Lance's shoulder whilst cackling.
"There's the Lance we all know and love!"
To polish his act, Lance smirks and winks at the camera.
On the third day of training, some of the tributes are noticeably better at the lot of things.
According to the one of the experts, the information logged into the computers used for the poison station is from one of the Victors in District 4 who passed away, and asked that their knowledge be stored safely after their passing.
"I want my brain to be stored into a computer when I die," Lance remarks, amazed, probably more than he should be.
"The amount of information you have in that brain of yours could be stored in a paper airplane," Keith says back, arms folded across his chest, and Lance is elated because, yes, he's finally playing back with their rivalry thing.
"Oh, yeah!?" Lance snaps. "Well, the amount of information you have, Mullet-Boy, can be—" He cuts himself off, unsure of what to say. Maybe he should've thought this through.
"Yeah? " Keith urges.
"—it's less than what I have!"
The girl from District 7, Soara, snorts mockingly from her place beside him. "Good one."
Then they move on, after being reminded that tomorrow is the day they're sent to the arena to die, and Lance manages to follow Keith to each station. From knot-tying to climbing, he's there, trying to one-up him in every subject imaginable.
Eventually, Keith shoves him away from one station and gets up in his face. "What's your deal!? Why won't you leave me alone!? "
Lance gulps, because—wow, his eyes are really pretty up close—and tries to straighten his back and look as threatening as possible (and pretend that his face isn't red).
"What's your deal, Mr. I-Trained-My-Entire-Life-For-This-One-Moment?"
Keith stares at him incredulously. "You're the one following me around everywhere!"
"You're the one acting like you own the place!"
Keith throws his hands in the air. Lance throws his arms out, stretching them wide, and then pats his chest.
An expert comes over, shoving them both apart with an angry look. "Save it for the arena," he hisses. "You two'll have plenty of time to get to know each other in there."
Keith and Lance share a look, an unspoken promise, and part ways.
From the other side of the gym, Mac sighs.
"Geez, from the way they obsess over each other so much, you'd think they were an old married couple."
Don't get attached, don't go into the Cornucopia, find a water source.
Lance repeats Shiro's words in his head over and over and over, as the elevator rises. Allura and Coran's faces disappear from view, and Lance can hear the countdown from above. He bites his lip, clenching his fists, his black suit suddenly feeling way too constrictive.
Then he feels air, feels sun, and his eyelids are red. When he opens them, he sees a wide meadow, surrounded by a large, thick expanse of forest that seems to go on for miles. He looks around, and then down, at the platform he stands on. He steps back a little, making sure to stand in the direct center. In the middle of all the platforms is the Cornucopia, stocked with weapons and supplies and bags. All of it looks incredibly tempting—
No! Don't get attached, don't go into the Cornucopia, find a water source.
He breathes in slowly. Beside him are the tributes, all of them sporting a rather varied selection of emotions. Mac is two platforms away from him, shifting uncomfortably on the platform. She's glancing back behind her, most likely making a plan to run for it as soon as the timer counts down. When he looks to his left, Keith is four platforms away, settling himself into a running position.
Lance notices a sword in the center. Then, to his surprise, he sees a sickle, set right beside it.
He looks at the timer, waits, and when the horn goes off, he runs.
He doesn't turn to look beside or behind him—just keeps his eyes on the sickle as he runs, runs, runs.
He makes it to the center, and his hands find the handle of the sickle. Beside him is another hand—Keith's—planted right on the sword. Once he unsheathes it from its place in the stand, the two stare at each other for a long moment.
Then there's a roar, and a larger tribute is coming at Keith from behind. Before Lance can even warn him, Keith whirls around and slices the blade of the sword right across his neck, decapitating him.
Lance's eyes go wide, his throat closes up, and he feels like vomiting. Time is moving in slow motion.
"What are you still doing here!?" Keith shouts.
Lance blinks, realizing he's still in the middle of the bloodbath, and nods. He dashes off, snatching up a bag before actually escaping, and scrambles back into the field. All that surrounds him is death. Tributes are being killed left and right, and even as he ducks underneath a blade blood from another tribute splatters onto him. He shouts, tripping over his own feet, and crawls away from the knives being thrown in his direction. There's too much, too much yelling and blood and dying—
He takes a deep breath, grips his sickle tighter, and runs off into the forest.
Someone is following him but he doesn't look behind him. He just keeps running, farther and farther and farther—until he ends up falling down a small cliff in the forest. He tumbles, dirt filling his mouth, and groans.
Except he's not safe.
Lance jumps up, holding his sickle out in front of him, and looks all around. All there is the sun shining through leave and the distant boom of cannons and the sounds of birds chirping—
Birds. Mockingjays. His District uses them to send messages to each other, to signal when a shift ends.
He whistles a faint tune, and the birds whistle it back.
Huh. How helpful.
Lance, tucking himself in the area underneath the cliff, takes the bag and sets it in front of him. He puts the sickle aside, but not to far from his grip, and flips the top open.
There isn't much inside, save for an empty water canteen, a rope, and three packets of crackers. He reminds himself to save the crackers, to not give into temptation, because he'll definitely need them later.
In the back of his mind, he wonders where Mac is. And then it hits him; he's fucked up.
Don't get attached, don't go into the Cornucopia, find a water source.
And he's failed both step 1 and 2.
Closing the bag and gripping onto the sickle, Lance makes a move to stand. Maybe he can fulfill step 3, and not be a total fuckup.
(Something in his head tells him he's going to fail that too.)
Night falls, and Lance still sees no one save for the occasional tribute in the distance. He climbs a tree, attempts to settle himself on the branch with the rope, and eats one of the crackers in his packet.
Then, the music starts, and Lance carefully puts his crackers away so he can see the fallen tributes.
The faces of the female tribute of District 1, the male from District 3, both from District 5, the male from District 7, both from District 8, and the female tribute (JJ, her name) from District 10 flash across the night sky.
Lance counts it up. That means there's 16 tributes left.
It's surprising, considering how usually half of tributes are killed during the bloodbath at the beginning. Lance wonders if this year's tributes are just that more skilled.
He thinks of Mac, and thanks whatever the hell is watching that she's alive.
Then he thinks of Keith, Mullet-Boy, and finds himself frowning. He had spared him at the bloodbath, had told him to run when he could have very easily killed him.
So why didn't he?
Lance sighs, disregards it and erases it from his mind. With the chirping of Mockingjays filling his ears, he closes his eyes and drifts to sleep.
When Lance opens his eyes, there's voices. Tributes.
He glances down, wonders if he's concealed high enough in the trees, and holds his breath when two tributes come stalking out of the bushes. It's the Careers—all the ones alive except for Keith.
"Did you find him yet?" the male, King, from District 4 asks.
The two others both shake their heads.
King sighs exasperatedly. "He's one of the strongest tributes here," he says, and Lance suspects he's talking about Keith. "We need to either kill him, or get with him."
His other teammates nod, and they move on. Lance finds himself exhaling in relief.
"So you thought of the tree thing too?"
At the sudden voice, Lance yelps, and flinches so hard he slips off the branch. He manages to grab onto it with his hands, hanging onto it from the rope. He glowers at the person in the tree across from him—Pidge. In their hands is a small pocket knife.
"I thought of it first," he says, because somehow he feels they aren't a threat.
Pidge snorts. "Yeah, okay. I'm Pidge. District 3."
Lance glances up at the branch. "Lance. District 11. I'd shake your hand but I'm hanging by a limb here."
Pidge blanches, giving him a deadpanned look. "Now I'm tempted to just leave you here."
Lance shrugs, the best he can. He grips onto the rope, tugging it loose from the tree until it falls to the ground. He pulls onto the bag, his sickle tucked safely inside, and slings it around his back as he holds on with one hand. He swings forward, letting go of the branch until he falls on the ground, rolling forward to avoid any ankle damage. He flourishes his arms outward, grinning.
Pidge, hanging upside down from a lower branch by their legs, claps.
Lance bows. "Thank you, thank you, but there's no need for applause." He flips his hair.
Pidge jumps down from their own branch, landing a little unsteadily on the ground. They straighten, and Lance is almost amazed at how short they are—just a little taller than Mac.
They extend their hand. "Truce?"
Lance narrows his eyes. "Aren't you avenging your brother, who was killed by someone from District 11?"
"...Yes."
"And I'm District 11."
"You didn't kill him," Pidge says with a strangely-sweet smile. "Shiro did."
Lance frowns, shifting his feet. "...But Matt asked him to."
Pidge furrows their brows, and drops their hand, but doesn't say anything.
"He... was going to die either way," Lance continues. "Shiro just had a better chance—"
"Do you want an alliance or not?"
Sighing in defeat, Lance grasps Pidge's hand in his own. "Fine. Truce."
Pidge nods, and there's a silence between them until Pidge points at Lance's bag. "You have crackers in there, right? I want some."
Lance groans. "You only want me because I have food."
Pidge glances from side to side, and shrugs. "I know where a water source is?"
Lance pauses, considers his options, and opens his bag. "Show me."
Pidge's water source is a small pond, but a source nonetheless.
"What'd I tell you?" Pidge laughs, taking a small bite of their cracker.
Lance rolls up his sleeves and fills the canteen with the pond water. "This water is dirty," he says. "We need to purify it."
"If we start a fire they'll see the smoke." They don't even have to say who they are.
"I have a sickle," Lance replies, but he doesn't know if he's ready to kill anyone.
Pidge shrugs, and stands up from the rock they'd been relaxing on. "I'll go find wood," they say, brushing themself off, and walk off.
Lance turns back to the pond. He leans over, dipping his hands in the water. Sighing, he splashes it onto his face, rubbing it into his hair and shaking the excess drops off. They drop down his skin, but he doesn't bother to wipe them away. He's not sure what the temperature inside the arena is, but he definitely knows it's hot.
Pidge returns a few moments later, carrying an armful of small logs. They drop them beside Lance, and kneel down to set them up properly, but then pause, staring behind Lance.
Noticing the action, Lance turns, and his eyes widen.
Mac is limping towards him, her arm covered in something wet and red, and her face stricken with sweat and tears. There's someone behind her, holding a bow and arrow. The tribute pauses, lines up his target—
Lance leaps, grabbing Mac and rolling her into the pond. She huffs, hiding underneath a rock to catch her breath. Pidge moves, and they're fast. They run up to the tribute, striking their foot against his kneecap before he can shoot. The tribute gasps, stumbling, and just as he falls towards the pond Pidge grabs the bow and swipes and arrow from the pack on the tribute's back.
The tribute falls, his back hitting a rock and slipping into the pond. He scrambles, trying to escape but slipping in mud. In one quick movement, Pidge sets the arrow, draws back the bow, and shoots.
The arrow hits the tribute's stomach, and Pidge frowns.
"This bow is hard to work with," they murmur, pulling it back and forth. As the tribute coughs and splutters all over the pond, blood spilling into the water, Pidge jumps down and pulls the bag of arrows out from under him.
Boom!
Lance stares, wide-eyed and jaw dropped. They had just... shot a person. With seemingly no effort. And it looked like they didn't even care.
He turns and vomits into the nearby bush.
When he's finished, he looks up, and sees two figures battling it out on the other side of the lake. Both wield weapons, one holding a sword and the other a spear. It seems the tribute with the spear is winning, the other looking weary and injured. The tribute with the spear turns, jabbing the blade into the other's arm.
Pidge draws the bow and shoots before Lance can stop them.
The one with the spear falls, the arrow hitting her in the back. She stumbles, slipping on a rock on the edge, and falls face-first in the pond. A few moments later, a cannon booms.
The one with the sword turns, shocked, and Lance's jaw drops—it's Keith, and he doesn't look good at all.
Pidge narrows their eyes and draws the bow again, but before they can shoot Lance leaps for them and shoves them to the side. "No!" he shouts, and Pidge releases the arrow in a flurry of shock. It ends up shooting the tree near Keith, and Pidge curses under their breath.
Lance looks up, meets Keith's eyes for a few moments, and a wave of emotions pass through his before he turns and runs back into the forest.
Mac crawls out from the pond, gripping onto Lance's side.
"C-c'mon," Lance stammers, suddenly feeling sick again. "We should get out of here before they come to pick up the b-bodies."
Pidge glowers, but nods.
(Lance's mind is blank as they run from the pond. Murder. Blood. Death. Life. He had just witnessed two people die, by the hands of someone who didn't even seem to care. With no regard for life.
This is the Hunger Games, he reminds himself. People are going to die. Everyone except one will die.
He wants to cry.)
Night falls. Three tributes died that day—the two Pidge had killed, and one other.
"Why did you kill those people?" Mac asks, shaking as she wraps her arms around herself.
Pidge looks down at their lap. They're sitting around a tree, taking sleeping shifts.
"They're tributes," they say, though they sound unsure.
"So are we," Mac counters, looking up through lidded eyes.
Deciding not to acknowledge that, Pidge looks over at Lance.
"Why did you stop me from shooting the other one?"
The other one. Keith. Lance swallows.
"I don't know."
All three of them have trouble sleeping that night.
He wakes to the scent of smoke. Eyes snapping open, he gasps at the sight of fire all around him. The blaze is deafening, the air so thick he can't breathe. Pidge is in front of him, shaking him awake. Their bow and arrows are slung on their back, all their stuff back for a quick escape.
Lance jumps up without a word, and moves to grab Mac. She stumbles, blinking blearily, like she can't even open her eyes. Lance holds onto her forearm, looking frantically all around for a means of escape. The wall of fire surrounds them, catching onto trees and making them fall from the inferno. It's so bright and so heavy that it looks like there's nowhere to go, and his chest is getting tighter and tighter and tighter—
A fireball shoots out from nowhere, and lands right next to him. He shouts, stumbling and falling to the side. Mac falls with him, groaning as he tumbles on top of her. Shielding her from a falling tree for a moment, he flinches when a hand suddenly grabs onto his shoulder.
It's Pidge. They're grimacing, gritting their teeth, pulling on Lance's suit hard enough to rip it. He collects himself, shaking his head, and breathes in shakily as he climbs to his feet. Mac is still on the ground, practically half-dead. Pidge moves faster than Lance can, and slings Mac onto their back (Lance is surprised; they're stronger than they look).
"I got her!" they say as they start heading towards a pass in the bushes. "Run!"
They're gone, taking Mac with them. Lance exhales slowly, feeling a sudden calm in the storm knowing they're safe, but it's short-lived. The tree they'd been sleeping on shakes, the leaves sudden ablaze. It falls, and Lance has to roll to the side just to avoid it.
More fireballs are coming, and Lance snatches up his pack before dashing off into the only area not blocked by fire. His palms are sweaty and his vision is blurry, his skin damp and his clothes sticking to him. It's uncomfortable, he's uncomfortable, and he wonders if he's going to die.
In his state of mind, he trips, and tumbles down a hill. The fireballs are still coming, landing everywhere but Lance. He wonders if it's just dumb luck, but when he stops rolling he looks up at the sky and sees one heading straight for him. Jumping to the side, he yelps when a spark hits his leg, and feels the unbearable heat spreading across his leg. He flinches, swatting at the flames frantically. Once they're out, he sees the scorching burn left behind, and the welts that begin to form in its place. He winces, biting his lip as he tilts his head back. It hurts to even try and stand, but he does it anyway, his heart jumping to his throat.
His entire body is overheating, and now the flames are on every side of him, there's no escape he's going to die he's going to die—
Lance falls one last time, and the world goes white.
He opens his eyes, and is surprised to realize that he's even opening his eyes.
There's a presence beside him, but he's too paralyzed to even make the effort to move his head. He stays there for a few moments, wiggling his fingers to get the feeling back.
Then it hits him. The searing pain in his leg. He winces, moving to sit up—
"Don't move too much," comes the voice, and it's... oddly familiar. "Your burn is pretty bad."
Lance turns his head, and screams.
"Mullet-Boy!? "
The tribute in question gives him a deadpanned look, pausing in the middle of drinking from his canteen. "Keith," he corrects, "and why is it that you only focus on my hair?"
Lance ignores his question, and sits up immediately. Keith sighs once Lance cries out in pain, and he looks over at his calf with wide eyes—the skin is absolutely destroyed, red and yellow and black all at once. Pus seeps through it, and Lance grimaces.
"It'll get infected if a sponsor doesn't send us medicine soon," Keith says, holding out the canteen to Lance. "Here."
Lance eyes the canteen suspiciously, and then back up at Keith's face. "'Us'?" he questions.
Keith raises an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah?"
"Why 'us'?"
"You saved my life, I save yours," Keith says with a sigh, taking the canteen back. "Now we're even."
Lance blinks, furrowing his eyebrows. His mind is scrambled, his memories blurry. It takes him a few moments to remember, and even then the exact details of what happened are scattered. Pidge shot the tribute he was fighting with, and then Lance prevented them from shooting Keith.
"Why didn't you let that kid shoot me?" Keith suddenly asks, as if reading his mind.
Lance stares up at the sky. "I have no idea," he replies earnestly. Then he pauses. "How the hell did you find me?"
"Just followed the smell of pure dumbass."
"Hey! You wanna fight!?"
He sleeps the most of the day, with Keith beside him, silently hoping for a sponsor. He's not really sure what to do to get a sponsor—only that the Mentors are supposed to help somewhat.
When he wakes, Keith is trying to get him to stand.
Lance shoves him away in shock. "W-what are you doing?"
"We need to move," Keith says. "The Careers aren't that far from us. I can hear them."
Lance processes his reply as he stands and leans on the nearby tree, even going so far as to count on his fingers. "Wait," he says, pausing as Keith reaches down to grab his sword and Lance's bag, "aren't you a Career, too?"
Keith stops, not turning to look at him. He only tosses Lance his pack, and motions for him to follow.
"Wait, why am I going with you? "
"Would you rather I left you here?" Keith calls back, practically out of sight already.
Lance considers his options, realizes that he has no idea where the hell he is, and slings his pack on his back. He hops, using the trees as leverage as he moves further and further, trying to catch up with Mullet-Boy.
"Wait up!"
He and Keith stop at the nearest pond, trying to cool themselves off in the searing heat. Lance dips his leg into the pond, the water easing his burn. It's dawn, and two cannons have already gone off. Lance prays with everything he's got that they aren't Mac and Pidge.
"You're pretty close to that girl from your district," Keith comments, running his wet hand through his hair. "What was her name? May?"
"Mac," Lance corrects, and nods, "and, yeah, I guess. She's really young, and scared."
"She doesn't seem all that scared."
"Going for the confidence approach."
"Like you?" Keith asks.
Lance looks up, and even though there's cameras everywhere, it suddenly feels like it's just him and Keith.
"Yeah," he says. "Like me."
Keith opens Lance's bag, and rummages through it. There's only a total of two crackers left.
"We need to find more food," he comments, taking them out and gently handing one to Lance.
He reaches over, letting Keith drop it in his hands—the moment their fingers brush he looks up startlingly at him, and holds the cracker closer to him. The sun is rising, painting the arena in brilliant colors, and making his pale skin light up. He doesn't realize he's staring—staring at the way his long fingers fold around the cracker, the way his teeth bite off the smallest part, the way his tongue pokes out to lick across the crumbs left over on his lips—until another cannon booms, and he flinches.
Don't get attached, don't go into the Cornucopia, find a water source.
Don't get attached.
He grimaces.
Lance wonders if he's giving the Capitol one hell of a show.
"Are we a team now?" he blurts, and flushes. He didn't even mean to ask it.
Keith turns his head, and wow, Lance never noticed the way his eyes sparkle in the sun. "Do you want to be?"
Lance shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but he's sure the way his hands are twitching gives him away. "Sure, why not?"
Keith nods, and holds out his hand. "Truce?"
Lance hesitates. It's the Hunger Games, and there can only be one winner. They'll have to kill each other eventually. Only one can come out on top. He knows this, and yet.
He clasps his hand into Keith's, and squeezes, like it's a challenge. "Truce."
It's night, and he sits in a tree. Keith is in the other branch, fast asleep (Lance curses himself when he dares to call an asleep Mullet-Boy cute).
The anthem begins to play, and Lance looks up at the sky. Keith shifts a little, blearily opening his eyes. He gazes up at the screen, as if in a daze.
More faces of tributes pass by, all in numerical order. Lance is hardly paying attention, counting on his fingers to determine how many are left, whispering the numbers to himself. Just as the face of the male tribute of District 10 flashes by, Lance waits for 12. Except it doesn't come.
What he sees is Mac's face, with her name and the number 11 beside her portrait.
Time stops, and he ignores the face of the male from District 12. His entire body is shaking, his eyes blown wide. He feels hands on him, it's Keith, telling him to calm down and to breathe, in and out.
But he can't. He can't—because Mac is dead. A little girl is dead, taken from him and her family and used as a toy for the Capitol to play with. He didn't even get to see her, get to see her before her death. He didn't even get to know how she died, or who killed her.
He looks up at the sky once the anthem ends, and he starts bawling.
Then there's awkward arms around him and he's pulled into Keith's chest.
What seems like forever passes. Then, Keith suddenly gasps, and he glances up. Keith is moving, letting go and climbing up higher the tree. There's a case in one of the branches, metal and shiny.
A package from a sponsor.
Keith takes it, opens it with shaky hands—
—and the grin that spreads across his face is one that appears foreign.
"It's medicine," he whispers in amazement, dropping back down to the branch beside Lance. "Burn medicine!"
Lance takes it in his hands, stray tears dripping onto the top of the case. He flips it open, sniffing to inspect the substance inside. Capitol medicine is always phenomenal.
Keith takes it back, tears away the fabric from Lance's burn, and scoops some in two fingers. As he applies it to the burn, Lance winces, gripping onto his thigh for leverage. Keith doesn't say a word as he spreads the medicine across the burn, biting his lip and wincing at the areas where it's particularly bad.
Lance takes the metal case, and blinks at the note inside.
She is not a toy, it reads, and there's no name on it.
He clenches his fist, puts the note into his bag, and leans against the tree branch. The feeling of Keith's hands on him is more comforting than he'd like to admit.
When morning comes and they're packing up to disembark, Lance is surprised to see that the burn has already healed incredibly well.
Before he goes, he takes Keith's sword and carves Mac's name into the trunk of the tree. Flowers from the bushes nearby are set all around the base, bundled up into a bunch at the bottom.
He turns, making sure a camera is on him, and raises his closed fist before putting it to his heart.
8 tributes left, including he and Keith.
Lance counts them up; there's Pidge, both from District 2, the boy from District 4, the female from District 7, the girl from District 12, and he and Keith.
He wonders how many days it's been. He guesses about six, or maybe seven.
The thought of Mac keeps him going, and he decides he's going to win.
For the both of them.
In the middle of walking, they're ambushed.
Both tributes from District 2, obviously teamed up, are aiming weapons at them. The girl doesn't waste any time in swinging her axe in Keith's direction. The male advances next, his dual daggers sharp and bloodied.
Keith draws his sword, the weight of his looking light in his hands. He swings it, ducking to avoid a swipe from the girl, and tries to slice the blade into her stomach. She moves, ducking to the side quickly, and Lance blanches—so this was the strength of a Career.
Lance takes out his sickle, fumbling as it was stuffed deep inside his bag. The blade is slightly cut, and bent from having sitting for so long, but Lance puts himself into a defensive position nonetheless. The boy charges at him, swinging his daggers left and right, and Lance squeaks when he raises his sickle to block one of them. The other strikes lower, slicing a small cut along his side. He gasps, and raises his knee in reflex to kick him away.
Keith's fight is a lot more equally-matched than his. Both trained exponentially in combat, their weapons clash together multiple times, each struggling to land a single blow. Eventually, the girl hacks part of her axe into Keith's leg, the cut not deep but stumble-worthy. Keith groans, his shoulders slumping for a moment. The girl takes her chance and aims for his neck, but Keith is quicker—and impales the girl in the stomach right before the axe can slice his head off. He pants, staying in one place, his knees bent and straining.
The girl coughs and sputters, sliding down the sword. When Keith twists it, a cannon booms, and he removes it from her in one clean swipe. She falls to the ground lifelessly. Keith slumps, landing against the ground and struggling to catch his breath.
Lance, on the other hand, struggles to even block and dodge each attack. Each dagger slices across his skin, cutting his clothes, and one even manages to stab him in the shoulder. He shouts, his hand automatically going to clutch the wound. The boy pulls his dagger from his shoulder, but Lance wraps his hand around the blade before he can pull away completely. It digs into his fingers, piercing his skin, his blood dripping over it. The boy furrows his eyebrows, but before he can make another move Lance jumps and kicks him in the stomach.
Once he's on the ground, he pounces, holding his sickle up. It's the perfect opportunity, one less tribute, so why is he hesitating why can't he do it—
The boy rolls him over until he's on top, and grins. His breath smells terrible when he gets up in Lance's face.
"The—little girl from your district," he laughs breathlessly. "What was her name? Ah, doesn't matter."
He presses the daggers to Lance's neck, pressing harder until a clean stripe of blood leaks.
"Her screams were so pretty when I killed her," he whispers. "She kept yelling for you—hoping you would save her." Then the boy scowls, and nudges his head. "Too bad you were off with your little boyfriend," he sneers.
Lance flares. Rage fills his body, overpowers his emotions, and he sees red. All he wants to do is take his sickle and choke him with his own blood until—
The boy suddenly groans, his eyes rolling back in his head, and falls to the side. Lance breathes in deeply, looking over to see the sword pierced through his chest. It's pulled out, and Keith's face is filling his vision.
"You okay?" he asks.
Lance, flabbergasted, just smiles. "We do make a good team."
Keith extends his hand, and Lance takes it. He pulls him up, but before Lance can even make his way to his feet, he pulls Keith down slightly and connects their lips. Keith makes a muffled noise against his mouth, and the contact lasts for a few moments until Lance suddenly realizes just what exactly he's done. He pulls away like Keith is fire, eyes wide and face pink.
Keith furrows his eyebrows, his fingers tracing his lips. "Why did you do that?"
Lance stares. He feels like crying and laughing all at once.
"I don't know."
They start a fire, ready to attack anyone who comes near. As they eat the squirrel Keith had hunted shortly before, Lance stares into the flames, biting his lips until they're red and bloodied.
The Hunger Games is a place people go to die. People die all the time. People are killed.
So why does he feel so guilty?
He remembers the rage he felt when the boy from District 2 told him that he killed Mac. He remembers how he wanted to kill him slowly and painfully, so he'll know the pain Mac felt and the pain he feels.
But guilt overwhelms him, consumes him, breathes through him.
He's taken a life. He's witnessed so much death. So much it plagues the air, and he doesn't want to breathe it anymore.
He tells himself to stay calm, because he'll win. He'll win for both he and Mac, and show the Capitol that they're more than playthings. But when he looks at Keith, he remembers there's only one Victor.
(He doesn't want to see him die.)
Day 10, and 6 tributes left. Pidge is still out there somewhere.
Even as he and Keith venture forth for food, he finds himself aimlessly looking around for the smaller tribute.
The Capitol decides there hasn't been enough bloodshed (too much, in Lance's opinion), and announces a feast. Something each tribute desperately needs, featured at the Cornucopia.
When Keith and Lance hide out there at dawn, there's six different bags placed on a table, each with a respective number on them. Keith eyes the one labeled 2, while Lance's focus is the one marked 11.
"What do you think is in there?" Lance asks, whispers, just in case anyone might be nearby.
"Food," Keith replies. "Water, maybe. It's hard to hunt in this arena when there's hardly any animals to hunt." He narrows his eyes. "And you always give most of the food to me."
Lance shrugs. "Don't need that much."
Keith sighs, and shakes his head.
"We should go now. Fast."
Lance nods, but before he can even think about moving from his crouching position, a blur of black runs out of the trees. Lance recognizes the pack of arrows and the bow slung on their back, and his eyes widen. Pidge. They move, so fast Lance's eyes can't even process what's happening, and snatch up their bag before disappearing.
(He wants to go after them, to hunt them down and ask why, why did they let Mac die? He keeps himself grounded.)
"C'mon," Keith whispers, and grabs Lance's wrist to help him up.
They whisk off, and once they're in the clearing Keith lets go of Lance. He's faster, a lot faster than Lance is and it pisses him off. Unfortunately, someone else seems to have the same idea, and the girl from District 7 is charging forward. She wields a mace in her strong hands, and she's bigger than Keith and Lance combined. It's a wonder she doesn't come from a Career district, but the he remembers that District 7 provides lumber for the Capitol.
She's fast too, though her weight slows her down. Keith manages to snatch his bag when the spiked ball comes down and hits the table. The other bags clatter to the ground. The girl takes hers, as well as everyone else's, and Lance draws his sickle. He slashes the girl's wrist, and she gasps, dropping the bags in shock. Before she can process what's happening, he takes his and shoves it in his bag.
Before he can sling his bag back onto him, the girl grabs onto the handle, tugging so hard the seams could've come apart. Lance kicks her arm, slashing it with his sickle. He knows he can wound her gravelly if he tries hard enough, but he somehow can't work up the courage.
Keith is fighting the other tribute—the boy from District 4—and it almost looks like he's losing. When Lance's eyes focus on him for a split second, the girl takes her chance and punches him the face. He stumbles back, appalled, and falls on his back on the ground. His sickle is cast aside, just out of reach, and the girl climbs on top of him.
She holds her mace up high in the air, and Lance turns his head to spit blood out of his mouth.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and it surprises him, because he wasn't expecting any kind of apologies from tributes, "but I have a family. A baby. My son." She lifts the mace higher and squeezes her eyes shut. "I have to win this for him."
Lance exhales slowly. "I have a family too," he says, softly, because he doesn't know what else to say.
Before the girl can even bludgeon his head, she drops the mace and the spiked ball hits the ground directly beside him. She drops her head, but her weight is too heavy for Lance to wiggle out from underneath her. Her eyes are filling with tears.
Keith shouts something, and when Lance turns the boy from District 4 is running away, abandoning his pack and sporting an injured leg. Keith turns, and notices the girl on top of Lance.
Before Lance can do anything, the girl picks up her mace and shouts as she swings it in his direction. She stands, ducking to avoid the swing of the blade, and Lance goes to grab his sickle. He whirls around, unsure of what to do. It strikes him all at once—all these tributes are people, children, with lives and families and feelings.
His heart drops to his stomach, and goosebumps pierce his arms once the blade of Keith's sword cuts through the girl's neck, decapitating her.
Lance screams, the only sound he can produce, and a cannon fires. The girl's head rolls off towards the bags, and Keith picks them all up without another word. He looks pale, and shaky, and Lance doesn't know what to think. The girl's body looks far too small as it lays in the grass.
Keith stumbles, falling onto his back, and covers his mouth with one hand. Lance moves to kneel beside him, dragging him by the elbow in an attempt to get him to stand. Keith is motionless, like the realization of his actions have finally caught up to him.
"Keith—" His voice cracks. "We—have to go."
Keith shakes his head, and then he's crying. It's silent, but his shoulders are shaking. Lance picks him up, lets him lean on his side, and practically carries himself and Keith away.
They stay near the Cornucopia at night.
"We stole all the other tributes' bags..." Lance mumbles, reading the 12 on the unopened bag.
"They didn't come get it in time," Keith says, trying to justify it. He gulps down the soup that was in the girl tribute's bag.
Lance picks at his nails, looking at the cuts and calluses all over his palms.
"She had a son, you know," Lance whispers, and why, why is he saying all this, "She said she was gonna win it for him."
Keith says nothing for a few moments. He shifts, turns his head away.
"Aren't you gonna win this for Mac?"
Lance shuts up, closing his mouth immediately. He stares down at his feet, a million thoughts rushing through his mind. He can't remember how many days it's been anymore.
"You'll have to kill me eventually," Keith says.
"I'm not going to kill you."
They don't talk the rest of the night.
At dawn, they're awoken by a scream. Lance jumps to his feet immediately, his hand going to his sickle. Keith is slower to move, his body lethargic.
Across the field runs Pidge, their leg bleeding all over the place. Behind them is the boy from District 4, Pidge's bow and arrows in his hands. He draws the bow back, but misses—Lance guesses he's not very proficient with a bow.
"Pidge!?" he shouts, and catches the other's attention immediately.
Pidge stops, and mouths the other's name, but ducks once the second arrow comes. The third is more precise, and strikes them in the stomach. They gasp, falling to the ground and twisting their leg. The boy from District 4 jumps onto them immediately, but Lance is faster.
He takes the sickle and strikes the boy across the neck, slitting his throat. He falls, and Lance ignores the cannon that strikes the air as he kneels down next to Pidge. He feels Keith behind him, looking around for the last remaining tribute or any other threats.
The arrow is embedded deep into Pidge's stomach, and they splutter and cough as blood soaks the ground around them.
"K-killed my... my own arrows," Pidge laughs, their voice so weak he could hardly hear it. "How... lame."
Lance looks down at the wound with hopeless eyes, and then back at Pidge's face. They're going to die.
"I'm—sorry," Pidge says, and Lance cradles their head in his hand, "about... Mac. I tried... t-to save her. I-I really did—" They're cut off by a coughing fit, and their body slumps against the ground.
"I'm..." Lance whispers, but his voice trails off, because what are you supposed to say when someone is dying? "I'm sorry..."
Pidge shakes their head, and grips Lance's hand. "Can you... tell me—wh-what happened... to my brother?" they wheeze out. "S-Shiro was your... Mentor. He... told—you... the truth, right...?"
Lance nods quickly. "H-he," he stutters, breaking out into a cold sweat, "he said Matt asked him to kill him, that they would both die if the hovercraft didn't come soon, th-that Matt would die i-if he won or not... I'm—I'm so sorry. Shiro.... he..." His face is wet with tears, his voice cracking and giving out.
Shiro's words fill his head. Don't get attached.
Pidge nods once, twice, motioning for Lance to calm down. They glance over at Keith, and give Lance a pitiful look. "Good luck," they whisper, and their hand drops from Lance's.
Boom!
Lance's entire body goes rigid. "Pidge..." he mumbles, more than a statement than a question. "Pidge...!?"
Keith grabs onto his shoulder, but Lance shoves it off harshly.
"Pidge! "
"Lance, we have to go."
"No! I..."
He doesn't protest when Keith grabs onto his arm and starts pulling him away, almost to the point of carrying him. The hovercraft draws near, dropping two claws to pick up both Pidge's and the other tribute's bodies.
He feels more hopeless than he's ever felt in his life.
"There's only one tribute left."
"Save for us," Keith says.
"The girl from 12, right? She... shouldn't be too hard."
"Okay. So, we defeat her. Then what?"
Lance eyes Keith up and down.
"Maybe we—"
"We have to."
Silence.
"So... who dies?"
"I guess that's up to future Keith and Lance to decide," Keith says, and pulls Lance in for a kiss.
They move on, in search for the last tribute. The arena is so big, they're unconvinced they'll find her soon.
But they're proven wrong when they find her digging into the land mines around the platforms, like she's trying to set up a trap.
When she turns, and sees Lance and Keith standing there, she jumps up and pulls out something from behind her back. Lance remembers seeing a pack of throwing knives at the beginning, and the girl from 12 apparently managed to get her hands on it. She throws the first knife, and once it's flying through the air she's running behind the Cornucopia.
Lance ducks to dodge the knife, and picks it up after a second thought.
What stops him from moving forward is a sudden growl. He and Keith pause, and the girl pokes her head out from behind the Cornucopia.
Dogs. No, mutts. Muttations from the Capitol. And there's a lot of them.
They're running, growling, snarling, and their appearance is absolutely grotesque.
"Run!" Keith shouts, grabbing onto Lance's hand.
They're rushing to the Cornucopia, and Lance swings onto the metal of the building. One of the mutts is getting closer, faster than the others, and before Keith can make his way alongside Lance, one snatches onto his ankle. He shouts, trying to kick it with his other foot, but the mutt only shakes its head and digs its teeth in harder. Keith screams, and Lance grabs onto his arm before kneeling down and aiming the pocket knife directly at it. When he throws it, it hits its head, digging into its forehead. The mutt backs off, making a strange noise between a whine and a growl.
Keith gasps as Lance pulls him to the top. The mutts are all around them on every end, scratching and jumping up on the metal. The noise that echoes through the air as their nails scratch against the metal is unpleasant, to say the least.
The girl from 12 apparently had the same idea, and the two turn around to see her standing there unsurely. She shifts on two feet, eyes catching back and forth.
Keith leans on Lance, his ankle wrecked and bloody.
The girl narrows her sharp eyes, and whips out two knives. She throws them without warning, and one snatches itself into Lance's shoulder. He gasps, stumbles, and nearly drops Keith into the pit of mutts—but manages to steady himself and keep them both grounded on top.
Keith's sword is still intact. He pulls it out, while Lance takes his sickle, peeling the knife from his shoulder and rolling it.
The girl takes out two more knives, her eyes focused directly on Keith.
She charges first, and Lance moves so they're not standing directly on the edge. Her blade clashes with the sickle, and she slides under the swipe of his arm. Lance lifts his leg, jabbing her in the jaw, and she nearly slips off the edge. She hands by her fingertips, and Lance is about to kick her off but then she grabs onto Lance's ankle and uses it to pull herself up. Once she's safely on the surface, she takes the knife and drags it across Lance's leg. He shouts, falling onto his back, and Keith moves.
His fighting is shaky, and he's basically standing on only one leg, and the girl quickly takes advantage of it—she swipes her leg underneath him, making him fall onto his back and his sword falling from his hands. It slides off the edge, falling into the sea of mutts, and they growl and bark even louder. Some even manage to jump high enough to look over the top.
"You've got moves, District 12," Keith hisses.
"My name is Shay," the girl retaliates, and lifts her knife.
Lance moves, kicking the girl off Keith until she's sliding towards the edge. One of her knives falls, but she holds onto one, digging it into the metal of the Cornucopia to say on. She swings her legs, jumping back onto the top.
She advances quickly, going for hand-to-hand combat instead of her knives. She manages a punch to Lance's jaw, but Lance blocks her neck kick with his forearm. She moves, lifting her knee until it hits him square in the chin. The sickle is knocked from his hands, and he tries to make a move to grab it but ends up slipping. The girl grabs onto his wrist just for show, and waves daintily at him as her grip begins to loosen—
Keith kicks her away, looping his arm around Lance's waist and tugging him back. He falls on top of him, taking a moment to catch his breath.
The girl is moving again, her knife the only available weapon they can see. Just as Lance gets up and thinks up a plan to take it from her, his foot slips, and he's falling—
Keith grabs onto his wrist as his legs dangle above the mutts. They're jumping, scratching claws against his skin and using their teeth to cut him, and he shouts, his heart dropping to his stomach.
The girl hovers over Keith, knife ready, but Keith is kicking his legs. Pushing her chest with his knee, she huffs and slashes at his face. Keith pulls harder, trying to life Lance high enough to jump on, and he does—just barely. Lance, breathless and dazed, tackles the girl to the ground with a sudden burst of strength. Adrenaline courses through his body, making him weaker and unsteadier. He rolls off, standing and staggering towards Keith. He stands, holding Lance with both of his arms and letting him lean again him.
They're both half-dead and nearly unconscious, but the girl is still coming. She takes her knife as she runs, moves to the side like she's going to come from behind, and throws it directly at Lance—
Keith moves in front of him, and the knife lands into his stomach.
He gasps, hand clutching Lance's shoulder so hard his knuckles are white, and Lance's vision is still blurry he's still unfocused—but when he sees the blood gathering around Keith's stomach something in him snaps.
He yells, and kicks the girl in the chest so hard she falls back and off the edge.
Lance watches as the mutts gather around her, her hand only visible in the sea of death as she screams and moans and cries. And he watches. And watches. Watches until the distinct boom of a cannon pierces the air.
And then he turns. Keith.
Too much death, too much death. Keith is shaking, trying to pull the knife out of his stomach with shaking fingers. When he can't, he falls to his knees and then to the ground, eyes wide and body unmoving.
"No, no, no," Lance whispers frantically, kneeling down beside him and letting his head move into his lap. He runs his hand through his hair, his other hand hovering over the knife. "Keith... Keith?"
Keith opens his eyes, slowly. "Yeah...?"
Lance grits his teeth. "Why the hell did you jump in front of me!?" He's angry, he can't help it.
Keith makes a movement that looks like he's trying to shrug, but winces instead. "You're... more important," he replies, "than me."
"Wh—" Lance shakes his head frantically, tears overflowing his eyes. "N-no, you're not. You're..." You're important to me, he wants to say, but can't wrap his lips around the words.
"You have a family," Keith says. "You... told me about them. Now... you can—" He breaks his own words with a cough. "—go back to them."
Don't get attached. Don't get attached.
He's seen so much death, too much death for someone so young. The Capitol uses them as toys, to strike fear into the hearts of Panem. It's their fault, it's not anyone's fault but theirs.
The Capitol killed Mac. The Capitol is killing Keith.
"Hey," Keith whispers. "This... was bound to happen. There's—only one winner."
"But..." Lance sniffles, taking Keith's hand into his. His body feels way too light, his skin way too pale. Blood is everywhere, and hes crying. Crying all over Keith and himself. He's sure he looks ridiculous, in front of the cameras. In front of the Capitol. In front of all of Panem.
Keith's hand leaves Lance's, and moves up to his cheek. He tugs Lance's ear, and pulls him down until their lips meet.
This time, Lance kisses back. When they pull away, Lances tears fall all over Keith's face.
"Why did you do that?" he asks shakily.
Keith's hand slips from his cheek, and falls to his side.
A cannon booms.
"The winner of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, Lance McClain!"