Chapter Text
The needle pricked Shane's finger before he was ready for it. He watched the bead of blood well up, bright red against his pale skin, and the Peacekeeper pressed it to the paper without ceremony. His blood spread across the fiber, a dark stain that marked him as present, accounted for, eligible.
Eligible to die.
He flexed his hand as he walked away from the registration table, trying to shake off the sting and the thought that came with it. The square was already filling up, but it didn't look like the somber gatherings he'd seen in footage from other districts. This was District 2. This was a celebration.
Streamers in red and gold hung from the buildings surrounding the square, snapping in the breeze. A band played somewhere off to the side, upbeat music that made the whole thing feel like a festival. People wore their best clothes, not out of grim obligation but genuine pride. Women in dresses that shimmered in the sunlight, men in pressed suits with pins on their lapels commemorating past victors. Even the kids looked excited, most of them. The older ones, the seventeens and eighteens, stood tall and ready, like they were waiting for their names to be called so they could claim their glory.
Only a few looked scared. Shane could spot them in the crowd, the ones whose faces were too pale, whose hands trembled at their sides. The ones whose families, like his, didn't see the Games as an honor.
Shane found his spot among the sixteen-year-old boys and tried to blend in with the ones who looked confident, eager. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly. Ten times. His name was only in there ten times. He'd done the math last night, lying awake in bed while his mother paced the hallway outside his room. Ten entries out of thousands. The odds were in his favor. They had to be.
And besides, someone would probably volunteer. That's what was supposed to happen in District 2. That's what had always happened. The reaping was just a formality. Some Career who'd trained their whole life would step forward and claim the honor before the chosen tribute even reached the stage.
The whispers had been circulating for weeks. A special reaping. A celebration of prosperity and loyalty to the Capitol. No one knew exactly what it meant, but the rumors ranged from extra food rations to a year without a reaping at all. Shane let himself hope for the latter, even though hope was dangerous in District 2. Even though they were supposed to be Careers, supposed to volunteer, supposed to see the Games as an honor.
He scanned the faces around him now, looking for that telltale confidence, that eagerness to volunteer. But everyone looked just a little too hesitant. A little too aware that volunteering meant dying.
The sun beat down on the square, and sweat prickled at the back of Shane's neck. He could see his parents in the section reserved for families, and they stood out like a wound in the celebration. His mother, Yuna, stood rigid, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles were white. The mockingbird pin she always wore glinted at her collar, catching the light. His father, David, had his arm around her shoulders, but his face was drawn, older than it had looked that morning at breakfast. Around them, other families laughed and chatted, confident their children would come home, or that if they didn't, it would be an honorable death.
His parents looked like they were attending an execution.
They hadn't wanted him to train. They'd fought the school when training became mandatory for all students. His mother especially. She had nightmares still, dreams of fire and screaming and a district that didn't exist anymore. District 13. She never talked about it, not really, but Shane had heard her crying in the night. He'd heard her beg his father to find a way out, to take them somewhere the Capitol couldn't reach.
There was nowhere the Capitol couldn't reach.
The clock tower chimed two, and the music cut off. The celebration dimmed to an expectant hush.
Effie Trinket appeared on stage in a dress that defied physics and good taste in equal measure. It was bright yellow with purple accents, and her wig was piled so high on her head that Shane wondered how she kept her balance. She'd been District 2's escort for five years now, and every year she seemed to get more enthusiastic about her job, more thrilled by the spectacle of it all.
"Welcome, welcome!" Her voice echoed through the speakers, artificially bright. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
The words were ritual. Familiar. They should have been comforting, but they made Shane's stomach turn.
Effie launched into the mandatory video, the one they'd all seen dozens of times. The history of Panem. The Dark Days. The rebellion that nearly destroyed everything. The Hunger Games as a reminder, a punishment, a way to keep the peace. Shane mouthed along with the words without thinking. They all did.
When the video ended, Effie clasped her hands together, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Now, as you all know, this is a very special year for District 2!" She paused for effect, and Shane's heart skipped a beat. "To celebrate our district's continued prosperity and unwavering loyalty to the Capitol, President Snow has declared that this year's reaping will be truly extraordinary. Instead of selecting one boy and one girl, we will be drawing two names, regardless of gender!"
The square erupted in confused murmurs. Shane blinked, trying to process what she'd just said.
Two names. Regardless of gender.
That meant... that meant his odds just got better. Way better. Instead of competing against just the boys, the pool was now everyone. Thousands of entries instead of hundreds. Ten times out of thousands and thousands.
Relief flooded through Shane so suddenly that his knees felt weak. He might actually be okay. He might actually make it through this.
"Let's start!" Effie trilled, and she tottered over to the glass bowls on her impossible heels.
Shane watched her hand disappear into the slips of paper. Watched her fingers dance across them, selecting, rejecting, selecting again. It was all for show. It didn't matter which one she picked. Someone's life was about to end, or change forever, and she was making a performance of it.
She pulled out a slip and returned to the microphone. The paper crinkled as she unfolded it, loud in the silence.
"Shane Hollander!"
The world tilted.
Shane's ears started ringing, a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. He couldn't have heard that right. He couldn't have. His name was only in there ten times. Ten times out of thousands. The odds were supposed to be in his favor. They were supposed to be in his favor.
Somewhere in the family section, his mother screamed. "No! No, no, no!" The sound cut through the ringing, sharp and broken. Shane heard his father gasp, a horrible, wounded noise.
The crowd was going wild. Cheering. Applauding. District 2 loved its tributes, loved the glory of the Games. They were celebrating.
His mother was sobbing.
Shane couldn't feel his legs, but somehow they were moving. One foot in front of the other. The crowd parted for him, and faces blurred past. Some were excited. Some were sympathetic. Most were just relieved it wasn't them.
The stairs to the stage seemed impossibly tall. He gripped the railing to keep from falling, and then he was standing next to Effie, and she was beaming at him like he'd won something wonderful.
"Wonderful! Let's have a big round of applause for Shane Hollander!" She gestured to the crowd, encouraging them, and they roared louder.
Shane couldn't look at his parents. If he looked at them, he'd break.
Effie was already moving back to the bowl. Shane's brain felt sluggish, trying to catch up. Right. Two tributes. Someone else was coming up here with him. Someone else's family was about to be destroyed.
"Ilya Rozanov!"
The name registered slowly. Ilya. Shane knew that name.
He watched as someone in the seventeen-year-old section stumbled forward. No, not stumbled. He was shoved. A man, his father probably, pushed him hard enough that Ilya had to catch himself to keep from falling. The crowd's cheering got louder, more frenzied.
Ilya walked toward the stage, and his face was completely blank. Stiff. Like he was forcing every muscle into submission. He didn't look at the crowd. Didn't look at his family. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, and there was something terrifying about how empty they were.
He climbed the stairs, and when he took his place on the other side of Effie, Shane finally got a good look at him.
He knew him.
The realization hit Shane like a physical blow. Ilya Rozanov. Number 81. Center. He played for the Bears, one of the districts hockey teams in their junior league. Shane had gone up against him dozens of times. He was fast, aggressive, the kind of player who'd slam you into the boards without hesitation and then offer a hand to help you up afterward.
They weren't friends, exactly. Different teams, different social circles. But Shane knew him. He'd shared the ice with him. He'd watched him score goals and celebrated when his team shut him down.
And now they were going into the arena together.
Ilya wouldn't look at Shane. His face was locked down so tight it looked painful. His hands were fists at his sides, knuckles white. He looked terrified under that blank expression. Looked like he was barely holding himself together.
Shane wondered if he looked the same.
Effie was talking again, something about the glory of District 2 and the honor of representing their home, but Shane couldn't focus on the words. Everything felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater.
"Happy Hunger Games," Effie said, her voice bright and final, "and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
The Peacekeepers moved forward, and Shane realized this was it. The goodbye. They got one hour to say goodbye to their families, and then they were gone.
They took them to separate rooms in the Justice Building. Shane's was ornate, decorated in the heavy, expensive style that the Capitol loved. Velvet curtains. Marble floors. Furniture that probably cost more than his family made in a year. He stood in the middle of it and felt completely out of place.
The door opened, and his parents rushed in.
His mother reached him first. She crashed into him, her arms wrapping around him so tightly he could barely breathe, and she was sobbing into his shoulder. Her whole body was shaking.
"Shane, baby, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Her voice broke across nearly every word, the sounds rough and strangled with grief. "This wasn't supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to... oh god, Shane."
"Mom." Shane's own voice cracked. "Mom, it's okay."
"It's not okay!" She pulled back just enough to look at him, and her face was streaked with tears. "It's not okay. You're sixteen. You're my baby. You weren't supposed to..."
She couldn't finish. She just pulled him close again, and Shane felt his father's arms come around both of them. He wasn't crying, but his breathing was ragged, uneven.
"You can do this," he said, and he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as Shane. "You're strong. You're smart. You've been training."
"I don't want to do this." The words came out before Shane could stop them, small and broken. "Dad, I don't want to go."
"I know." His father's hand came up to the back of his head, holding him like he had when Shane was little. "I know, son. But you're going to survive this. You hear me? You're going to come home."
His mother made a horrible noise, something between a sob and a gasp. She pulled away from Shane, her hands shaking as she reached for her collar. The mockingbird pin. She'd worn it every day for as long as Shane could remember, this little golden bird with its wings spread.
"Here." She fumbled with the clasp, her fingers clumsy with grief. "Take this. Please. It kept me safe once. It'll keep you safe now."
"Mom, I can't take that. It's yours."
"It's yours now." She finally got it free and reached up to pin it to his shirt, right over his heart. Her hands were still shaking. "Please, Shane. Please survive this. I know you're a good boy. I know you don't want to hurt anyone. But I need you to win. I need you to come home to me."
The pin was solid against Shane's shirt, and its presence felt like a brand. The weight of everything it meant pressed down on him, everything she wasn't saying. District 13. The Capitol's destruction. The fact that she'd survived when so many hadn't, and now her son was being fed to the same machine that had tried to kill her.
"I'll try," Shane whispered. "I promise I'll try my best."
It wasn't enough. They all knew it wasn't enough. But it was all he had to give.
His father hugged him one more time, fierce and desperate. His mother kissed his forehead, his cheeks, crying so hard she could barely stand.
And then the Peacekeeper was at the door, saying "Time's up" in a voice that allowed no argument, and his parents were being ushered out. His mother looked back at him one last time, her face crumpled with grief, and then the door closed and Shane was alone.
He didn't have time to fall apart. The Peacekeeper was already gesturing for him to follow, and he was being led through the Justice Building's halls to a car waiting outside. Effie was there, still in her ridiculous dress, and Ilya was already in the back seat.
Shane climbed in next to him, and Effie settled across from them with a satisfied sigh.
"Well! That was exciting, wasn't it?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Now, we have a few hours' journey to the Capitol, where you'll wait for the other tributes to arrive and meet your mentor, Scott Hunter. He's wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Won ten years ago, very handsome, very capable. You're in good hands!"
The car started moving, and Shane watched District 2 disappear through the window. His home. His family. Everything he knew, getting smaller and smaller until it was gone.
Shane was shaking. He couldn't stop shaking. His hands were trembling in his lap, and he clenched them into fists, trying to get control of himself.
Ilya hadn't moved. He was staring straight ahead, his face still that terrible blank mask. But Shane could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he swallowed hard, forcing something back down. He was terrified. They both were.
Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the car and Effie's occasional commentary on the scenery they were passing, her voice filling the void that Shane and Ilya couldn't bridge. She pointed out landmarks, mentioned the weather, chattered about absolutely nothing while two sixteen and seventeen-year-olds sat across from her trying not to break down.
"Oh!" She sat up suddenly, delighted. "I've seen you play, Shane! District hockey, yes? You're quite good! I go to the junior games sometimes when I'm in District 2. Very exciting sport. Very brutal."
Shane managed to nod. Speaking felt impossible right now, his body refusing to cooperate.
He glanced at Ilya and saw the shift happen. The emptiness dropped away for just a second, and something cold and furious took its place. His face went hard, and he still wouldn't look at Shane.
"Ilya's a great player too," Shane heard himself say. His voice sounded distant, not quite his own. "Really great."
It was true. It was also the first time he'd acknowledged that Ilya was here, that they were in this together, and Shane didn't know why he'd said it. Maybe because Effie's praise felt wrong when Ilya was sitting right there, ignored. Maybe because they were both about to die and it seemed stupid to pretend they didn't know each other.
Effie lit up. "Oh yes! Yes, of course! I've seen you both play. Such talented young men." Her smile faltered slightly, and for just a second, something like genuine regret crossed her face. "It's such a shame neither of you will be making it to the playoffs this year."
Shane's face went slack with horror. The playoffs. Right. The season finals were in three weeks. His team was projected to make it. So was Ilya's. They were both going to be there.
They were going to be alive.
Shane looked at Ilya and saw disgust twist his features. His lip curled, and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. For a moment, Shane thought he was going to say something, going to snap at Effie for her casual cruelty.
But he didn't. He just turned his head to look out the window, his jaw working, and the disgust settled into something harder. Something that looked like resolve.
Effie didn't seem to notice either of their reactions. She'd already moved on, pointing out a flock of birds in the distance, exclaiming over their formation.
The landscape changed from District 2's mountains to flatter terrain, and then suddenly they were approaching the Capitol. Even though Shane had been here before for hockey tournaments, the Capitol still stopped him. The sight of it was so excessive, so aggressively beautiful, that he couldn't look away. Towers of glass and steel, buildings that spiraled into impossible shapes, everything gleaming and bright and excessive.
It was beautiful. It was obscene.
The car took them directly to the Training Center, and Effie ushered them into an elevator that moved so fast Shane's stomach dropped. They rose higher and higher, and he watched the city spread out below them through the glass walls. Somewhere down there, people were placing bets on which of them would die first.
The elevator opened onto a floor that was even more luxurious than the Justice Building. Everything was sleek and modern, all clean lines and expensive materials. Effie led them down a hallway to a sitting room where a man was waiting.
Shane recognized him immediately. Scott Hunter. He was in his late-twenties now, still fit, but there was something exhausted about him. His eyes held the particular emptiness that came from having won the Games. His dark hair was longer than it had been during his Games, and there were shadows under his eyes.
He stood when they entered, and his gaze moved between Ilya and Shane. Recognition hit his face first, followed by something that looked like sorrow.
"Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov," he said, and his voice was rough, tired. "I know you both. My boyfriend and I go to all the junior hockey games." He paused, and his expression softened into something that might have been sympathy. "I'm sorry you were both picked."
The words hit Shane harder than they should have. All day, people had been congratulating them, celebrating, treating this like an honor. Even Effie, with her cheerful commentary and bright smiles, had been acting like they'd won something.
Scott was the first person to say he was sorry.
Shane felt his composure splinter, and suddenly he was dangerously close to crying again. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, using the pain to keep himself together.
"Thank you," Shane managed to say.
Ilya said nothing. He was back to staring straight ahead, his face blank again, but Shane heard him swallow, hard enough that it sounded painful.
Scott nodded slowly, his eyes moving between them again. "Sit down," he said finally. "We have a lot to talk about, and not much time to do it. The other tributes will start arriving tomorrow, and the opening ceremonies are in two days."
Shane sank into one of the chairs, and Ilya took one on the opposite side of the room. As far from Shane as he could get.
Scott watched them both, and Shane saw him note the distance, the way Ilya wouldn't look at him. His expression was unreadable.
"This is going to be interesting," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Shane didn't know if he meant interesting good or interesting bad.
He was too numb to care.