Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I

The midday sun shone, blindingly white, upon the rippling, golden earth, which reflected the glare back into Gi-hun's eyes. Gi-hun was limping forward, his right leg carrying most of his weight, but the corresponding pain was nowhere to be found. 

Eyes still adjusting to the light, he squinted at the dark shape in front of him. After a moment, it solidified into a familiar figure, someone he hadn't expected to see.

He was facing off against his childhood friend, who looked menacing and bloodthirsty and desperate a few feet away from him. A cornered, feral animal. Matted hair, bloodshot eyes, a short, curved sword in hand. He looked like he should be a stranger, nothing like the boy who'd played hide and seek with him in the wheat fields back home.

Gi-hun had acquired a military scythe at some point, he knew, but for some reason his hands were empty. He found himself incapable of spinning on his heel, legs as if sunken to the ankle in unyielding mud; all he could do was stand like a deer in the headlights as his death approached.

“Please,” he tried, but no sound came out.

Sang-woo advanced with a war cry.

Gi-hun jumped up in bed, panting like a dog. His heart beat a frantic drum against his ribcage. The dream faded around him slowly, the dissipating mist at dawn. It took him far too long to remember he was no longer a seventeen-year-old tribute in the Games, but a forty–eight-year-old in charge of mentoring two tributes of his own.

He waited for his trembling to subside before he tried to get up and wipe some of the cold sweat off his body.

The train rushed, almost silent and unobtrusive, underneath Gi-hun’s body, cutting through the distance between District 11 and the Capitol like one wasn't halfway across the country from the other. The blurred scenery outside the window never got any less vertiginous, year after year.

It had been thirty years today and still it felt like a fresh wound. Sang-woo's face was never remembered in the daytime as clearly as it was in his nightmares. 

On the annual day of the reaping, the day he met the year's tributes, that wound was torn open anew, that frail, pathetic scab. Another batch of kids sent off to be butchered by and in the name of a greedy, authoritarian regime. 

They didn't deserve it. No one did, but these two—fifteen-year-old Sae-byeok who'd volunteered as tribute to save her little brother, and seventeen-year-old Ali who was already a father, with so many tesserae to his name that he’d barely looked surprised when he’d been drawn… they deserved it least of all.

Earlier, he’d told the kids’ escort he’d be retiring for a nap, and that he’d meet them when he woke up. It must’ve been a couple of hours by now, the sun hanging lower on the horizon, and the drink he’d had before bed had settled in his gut like lead.

Gi-hun stumbled to his feet and exited his train car, heading in the direction of the lounge. He had watched the reaping from his home in the Victors’ Village, his only company the bile buildup at the back of his throat, so he hadn’t seen the kids in person yet. They’d appeared very skinny on the television, so starved-looking that he had no doubt they had spent these few hours eating to their hearts’ content. Though they could just as easily be, like Gi-hun had been in his time, sick to their stomachs with dread.

He'd met both types of children over the years. The ones who sought refuge in the lavish food, and the ones who felt nausea at the mere sight. Both equally malnourished, in contradiction to the bountiful orchards they grew up tending to.  

Sae-byeok, Ali, and the escort were sitting around the dining table, but only the escort had some pastries on his plate, which he ate at his leisure. The girl was staring off to the side, eyes bloodshot, mouth pulled into an aggressive pout. The boy looked like a wet puppy someone had stepped on and kicked to the side of the road, fiddling with his own fingers in a nervous manner.

Gi-hun pulled a chair and sat himself down next to Sae-byeok. 

“Sorry for the delay. I needed—”

“You smell like booze,” Sae-byeok said. Her voice was surprisingly deep for a girl her age.

He blinked in surprise.

“Eh…”

If he were to be honest with them, he'd say it was the only way he could stomach these Games without killing himself, like many other victors did. The public learnt of illnesses, natural causes, but these news traveled among their own kind. Nothing natural about bleeding out in a bathtub, about hanging oneself from the ceiling beam. Gi-hun never allowed himself to entertain these thoughts too hard, because then who'd help the tributes in the years to come? He was the only living mentor from 11. 

He couldn't tell her that. Gone were the days of his youth when he went on impetuous diatribes against the Games. What purpose would it serve? Rebellion had taken enough from him already. Resisting was futile. And the kids were from District 11, they were beaten down enough as it was. 

“Just a little something to wake me up. I'm always so sleepy after a nap.”

He yawned for effect.

The escort snorted. Gi-hun glanced at him: crimson suit, crimson kohl, white smirk that seemed to bleed crimson, aimed Gi-hun’s way. He had been working with District 11 for two years now. Gi-hun still didn't know as much as his name.

He ignored the man and turned his attention back to the tributes.

“Do you guys wanna eat something or do you want to talk strategy?”

Sae-byeok stared at him, somewhere between blank and unamused, like the answer was obvious. Ali finally looked up from his hands, gaze terrified and oh so gentle. Gi-hun's heart shrunk in his chest.

“Okay, well. Do either of you have any skills that could come in handy? We don't learn to fight on 11, we’re not a Career District, but anything helps. Hand to hand? Either of you agile?”

“I'm pretty quick,” Sae-byeok grumbled.

“I… I work in the wheat fields, I'm really good with a scythe. I heard from my mother that you won using one.”

Gi-hun nodded approvingly at Ali.

“Well, the scythe I used is a little bit different from the one you’re used to. And that I was also used to, actually. I got lucky, cause I had no technique whatsoever.” He began to illustrate with hand gestures. “Our scythe has two side handles, right, and the blade is curved at an angle from the shaft. So when we do this…” he made an arc with his hands, “we cut out large chunks of wheat.

“But a military scythe is a polearm. Has no handle, you pick it up like a spear, and the blade is not as curved. If it was, you'd have to strike from above,” he hooked his hand in a sweeping motion, “and pull them—near. Very dangerous thing to do, bring an enemy closer. The blade is thicker, too, and it's at a straight angle from the shaft. Lemme—”

Gi-hun took a pen out of his breast pocket and drew some sloppy comparisons and schematics on the tablecloth.

“And there’s the short ones too, some people use one in each hand. Mine was long, though, and just the one, it’s closer to—” he drew the double short military scythes next to the other doodles, “agriculture scythes.”

The escort drawled, “The tablecloth, that's District 1 organza.”

Gi-hun raised his head from his drawings to find the escort staring at him with a sardonic eyebrow raised. He finished eating a tartlet and licked his fingers clean.

“I'm a victor,” Gi-hun said with forced good humor. He and the escort had been subtly antagonizing each other from the day they met, and he didn’t trust the man one bit. “Call it an autograph and someone should eat it up.” And to Ali, “Well, keep this in mind if you find a scythe at the arena.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ali said, sounding too earnest for Gi-hun's comfort. 

“Gi-hun's fine,” he said, running a sheepish hand through overgrown hair.

“And me?” Sae-byeok asked, a little impatient.

Gi-hun realized he’d been neglecting her and turned his full attention to her.

“You'd make a good stealth player,” he analysed. She pressed her lips together. “You might be thinking that that’s not the kind of player that usually wins, and you’d be right. But then again, no one from 11 is. We can make it happen again.”

He looked her up and down. Malnourished, overthin, tall, weak. An easy target. A spark in her eyes you only ever saw in survivors. In victors. 

Stranger things had happened. Gi-hun's own victory was one.

“You should get water and run at the sight of a fight. Maybe use traps?” He began to think aloud. “Yeah, traps for both killing and hunting; I can teach you some. It’s not too difficult, I’ve learned some easy and quick ones so that I could mentor my tributes.”

Sae-byeok nodded to show she was following along.

“You can also use the environment against them; when we get there, we'll go over the basics.” He paused, holding his hand up in front of her, his five fingers splayed wide. As he counted the tributes, he put the respective finger down. “If you make it to top five, know that it's maybe another stealth like you, who survived by staying out of the way, a strong competitor from one of the non-Career Districts, and at least a couple of Careers.”

“Should I do that too?” Ali cut in. “Hide?” 

Gi-hun looked at him skeptically. 

“Hide, yes. But not the exact same, you don't look too fast.”

He was wide in the shoulders and a little gangly, not the ideal profile for a stealth player.

“I'm not, si—Gi-hun. A-A bit clumsy with my feet,” he admitted sheepishly.

Gi-hun nodded without judgement.

“You avoid the Cornucopia same as Sae-byeok. Hide, look for water. But if you're ever in a fight you might win, go for it. You seem like a strong kid.”

“I'm seventeen,” he protested in a mild manner.

An infant. Gi-hun smiled sadly.

“Well, we'll talk more about that when we get to the Capitol.” He huffed out a laugh. “That's all all of you ever want to talk about. Fighting, weapons, water, shelter.” The reminder of the past others, fifty-eight to be exact, was bitter on his tongue. “But what will go down in the arena, that's not what makes or breaks survival, in my experience. It's what's happening on the outside.”

“What do you mean?” Sae-byeok asked. 

No-nonsense and harsh, he was noticing, was her default mode, but he could tell she was curious.

“The sponsors. Remember the little parachutes? They're gifts from rich viewers from the Capitol, and they pay out of their pocket, fortunes for things their favored tributes really need. You have an infected wound? They send the antibiotics. You’re starving or freezing? Theirs is the emergency food or coat. Once, they even sent a golden sword, most expensive gift ever given to a tribute.”

Not that the tribute had really needed it, if memory served Gi-hun correctly.

“And how do we get sponsors?” was Sae-byeok’s impatient question.

“You make people like you.”

Silence. The tributes glanced at each other meaningfully.

“Neither of you seem too, eh, charismatic…” he tried to explain, but realized how rude it sounded. He backtracked, stuttering, “I mean… not that you’re not lovely—” Except he’d met them ten minutes ago, “I-I mean, no offense, you’re a little shy, Ali, and Sae-byeok, you’re a bit, um, rough around the edges—”

Predictably, she took offence.

“Sorry if I—”

“I mean for them,” Gi-hun clarified, a touch of urgency in his voice. The thought that she would find him to be the same as the fat-cat sadists at the Capital was unbearable. He cast off his non-interfering stance and said: 

 “Sorry, I… I meant they can’t empathize with you. They just want a dancing monkey. It is cruel to ask a performance of you, and yet here I am. Asking.”

He wanted to hang his head in shame.

Her brow, furrowed in a glare, twitched in surprise.

“Careful there, Gi-hun,” the escort said, plopping some sort of finger food into his mouth.

“D’you mind?” Gi-hun snapped, fighting to keep his voice mild. “I’m trying to talk to my tributes here.”

The escort got up with sleek grace, snake-like and languid.

“I was done anyway.” He sighed and tapped his flat stomach over the extravagant suit. “Ba-bye. Don’t be filling up their heads with nonsense.” When he was almost out of the door, he called over his shoulder. “Send Mrs. Seong my regards, would you?”

The automatic doors slid open for the escort with a smooth hissing of metal. Gi-hun didn’t see it slide back shut.

His mother’s face, unevenly tanned from long hours in the sun. Her cheeks, forehead, eyes, their deep grooves painted over the course of a life of hardship.

Her prone form in the living room of their house, blood pouring sluggishly from the hole on her forehead.

The glass marble balls, left beside her corpse like a signature.

“Sir? Are you okay?” Ali asked.

The boy was now next to Gi-hun, having stood up unnoticed while his mind snagged on the cutting edges of the past.

Gi-hun shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“Yeah, just—maybe you were right,” he told Sae-byeok with a sheepish laugh, “maybe I drank too much.”

She didn’t look convinced, but was tactful enough not to say anything, which came across, to him, as incredibly mature for her age. At fifteen, he remembered being little more than a buffoon himself.

“Well, where was I? Right, sponsors.” They still looked hesitant, but he powered through, saying, “As I said, charisma! That’s cracking jokes, bantering with the interviewer, that sort of thing. Probably not your thing. Other tributes use sex appeal, but I don’t want to lead with that either.”

They looked at him expectantly. Gi-hun faltered, mind drawing a blank.

“Uhh. So what can we do for you two?” he stalled. 

Gi-hun had been doing this for literal decades, but still seemed to be having trouble remembering the well-rehearsed script. He laughed to diffuse the tension, stomach roiling.

He still smelled blood.

“What can… oh! Sure, sure, we can play up the pity card. I can sell a dramatic story.” He nodded to himself, exhaling. “Sae-byeok, you have your little brother; it’s not common to see people from our District volunteer. You’re a tough girl too, there’s bound to be some interest. And Ali, you’ve a wife and daughter, right?”

The boy nodded.

“Great. The hardworking boy with a heart of gold. Wants to fight for his family. They eat that sort of thing up.”

He smiled widely at them, proud of his own gameplan in a way that settled his emotions. 

“Why does everything sound so—” Ali began, hesitant.

“Dirty,” Sae-byeok completed, word a shard of ice.

Gi-hun lost the easy smile he had plastered on. He mulled over their reactions for a while before he asked, measuring each word:

“Do you want to survive?” While not harsh, he was definitely serious. “It’s not a trick question. Please answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Sir.”

Gi-hun nodded, as if that in itself was an argument. Maybe it was.

“Then do as I say. Pride will take you nowhere.”

When they didn’t say anything, just stared at him with their wide, young eyes, he husked out, “I say this not out of cruelty. This brings me no joy. People die just like they came into the world. Ugly and—and screaming. And if you die in the arena, you die for the whole of Panem to see. People for whom your spilled blood is the afternoon entertainment."

A maelstrom of memories over the years, the almost childish excitement of the Capitolites at the gruesome deaths of children.

"In their fancy homes, in their dinner parties, they’ll bet on you, talk about you to their friends over a glass of champagne like you’re a rooster in a cockfight.”

After that, he heard no more protests from either of them. A wave of guilt followed his words, but, while he knew he had been too severe, and put the three of them at risk—walls had ears—he had a feeling they’d needed to hear it. 

Though not as clueless as he’d been, a feat he doubted anyone could beat, they'd still seemed too comfortable, far too naive for the reality they’d be facing. He doubted they would be the ones to make it through, but he’d be lying if he said he ever, in all these years, had stopped hoping.

They arrived at the Capitol at nighttime. Gi-hun was far too used to the exuberance to think anything of its skyscrapers, its slithering, limpid rivers, its grandiose monuments, and overabundance of cement. The tributes, however, had never set foot outside their farming District, and Ali had nearly plastered his face to the window, amazed. Gi-hun couldn’t help the flicker of amusement as he saw the smudges of fat left on the glass. 

Ali seemed to have forgotten, if only for a moment, that this was his chopping block. Opulence built on the expense of his life. It was a little endearing. Sae-byeok was more restrained, but her eyes had still widened as she took in the indulgent splendor of the heart of Panem.

The train slowed to a halt at the station and they were ushered into a car and towards the tributes’ tower. As the most distant District from the Capitol, they arrived at nighttime, and the public had already dispersed, off to celebrate the upcoming games. 

The escort led them to the eleventh floor of the tribute tower, their living quarters striking as ever, but more distasteful than usual to Gi-hun’s eye. Its decor had changed in comparison to last year. It always did, before every game, new furnishing and fresh paint and sometimes even a new layout.

This year, the color scheme leaned heavily on greys and golds, sharp, brutalist edges on most of the furniture. There was some sort of room divider wall built into the living space, separating the drawing room partially from the dining room. Last year, it'd been an open concept, rosé and rounded ends all over.

“Your room is over there,” the escort was telling the kids, “and yours is that way. You both have attached suites to use to your heart’s content. I personally recommend the hot tubs, quite relaxing.” He turned to the children’s mentor. “I believe I don’t need to tell you where yours is.”

Gi-hun ignored him.

“It’s been a long day.” He yawned exaggeratedly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kids.”

“Can’t we begin training now?” Sae-byeok asked, somewhat brusquely. She seemed a bit embarrassed at how loud her words came out, and the next ones were said in a mumble, “I mean. We don’t have long.”

“I don’t even think the training rooms are open right now. Plus, you need the rest. You’ll retain more if you get some sleep, trust me.”

She frowned.

“Cause you know so much?”

Gi-hun smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, I am your mentor.”

“And how many of us have you mentored into survival in all these years?” she shot back with a hint of defiance.

He blinked, taken aback. 

“Sae-byeok—!” Ali said, scandalized.

The escort chuckled.

“Oh I like this one,” he purred. “Feisty.”

Gi-hun bristled, wary of the man’s oily intonation, especially since he was well aware that the Capitol was in the habit of using them, victors and tributes alike, for sexual gratification. He wanted to shield her from any ill-intentioned eyes, wanted to keep her safe in all the ways a child could be safe.

“You’ll just have to trust that I know what I’m doing,” he told her tersely. Before she could protest, he said with finality, “It’s late. Lock your door when you go to bed. Same goes for you, Ali.”

Ali bid him goodbye in a hesitant manner, but the other two remained silent.

The escort watched Gi-hun go with an amused, knowing smile that burned the back of his head. Gi-hun locked himself in his room then unlocked the door, figuring that he should be as readily available as possible if something happened to his tributes or if one of them tried to reach him during the night.

Gi-hun turned on his television and, as expected, it was showing a rerun of the tributes’ reapings earlier that day. He sighed and settled down on the bed to watch, analysing the other kids he’d put his own up against.

The Careers, as expected, were proud teens, holding their chins up high as they were given the dubious chance to prove themselves and honor their Districts. A seventeen-year-old girl, buff and stoic, was the District 2 volunteer, while the other Careers from 1 and 2 were pulled from the reaping ball.

He took out a little notepad, as he’d always favored something he could grasp rather than the electronic gadgets so readily available in the Capitol. Height, build, and bearing of all the tributes were written down, Gi-hun trying to harden his heart against the fact that most, if not all of them would be dead soon. Tried to ignore that he was hoping that they’d be dead soon, so one of his could live. Despite his efforts, the sob from the little twelve-year-old boy from District 8 cut him like a knife.

He’d already seen his two tributes’ reapings, but he needed to pay attention to the narrative created around them by the host to better create the strategy for their public persona. 

When Sae-byeok volunteered for her brother, the host exclaimed,

“I haven’t seen something so touching since Somun Woo-jin died trying to protect Ku Ji-sun!”

“That was the friends from 7 a couple of years ago, right?” asked the celebrity that co-hosting the reapings broadcast.

“That’s right. In the end, he just wasn’t a match for a group of bloodthirsty Careers.”

“Is anyone?” they asked, laughing. “Like sharks scenting the water, I swear!”

The host looked away from the celebrity and turned to face the camera, voice jokingly solemn.

“Now I don't know about ‘touching’, but if you're as old as me you certainly remember the last time someone volunteered in place of their brother.”

The celebrity looked at him in confusion. They had so many bodymods that Gi-hun couldn’t pinpoint neither age nor gender, but he deduced they must be younger than the host.

“Hwang In-ho, from District 2! His little brother got reaped at twelve, some real bad luck, and he refused to lose the spotlight. Our youngest victor ever, at only fourteen! Vicious boy.” He said it in admiration. “Watching him was really something.”

His tone was dreamy, rejoicing at the memory of a fourteen-year-old butchering other children.

“Oh, Hwang In-ho. The one with the wife…?”

The host’s bliss dampened some and he nodded somberly.

“Pity that. And the baby…” He didn’t seem too broken up about it, though, and was only too eager to move on. “Well, this Sae-byeok is certainly no Hwang In-ho. Such strong love for her brother.”

Then it was Ali’s turn. 

For all that Sae-byeok’s selfless act was heartbreaking, to say nothing of the way her brother screamed her name until his voice broke, it was Ali’s wife—falling to her knees, clutching a newborn in her arms, somewhere between crying and hyperventilating—that made Gi-hun drop his notebook and bury his face in his hands.

He hated himself for this bogus empathy, fabricated against his will. That was part of the Capitol lifestyle, too, having someone to root for, someone to shed gleeful tears over, like a pig mucking around in the mud of their own feelings.

A reprise of the violence that Ali and Sae-byeok had suffered was sadistically indulgent. Not in the sense that Gi-hun enjoyed watching their pain, but in the equally nefarious way the Capitol wallowed in others’ suffering, because it allowed them to feel extreme emotions with none of the danger. Toys, the tributes were, objects, masturbatory icons.

Soon the District 11 reaping was through and the host moved onto 12. Even poorer than 11, it had been a long while since it had had a winner. 

As the camera focused on the stage, something struck Gi-hun as odd. There were two reaping balls rather than one, and in one of them there was only a single slip of paper.

Before Gi-hun could ask himself why, the host said, “A sixteen-year-old girl from District 12 was found guilty of brutally murdering her mother and father! She was given the choice to face capital punishment or join the Hunger Games, and well… I guess we all know what she chose.” He laughed, callously exuberant. “We can only hope she’s as fierce in the arena as she was at home!”

“What a monster!” the celebrity exclaimed, sounding intrigued rather than horrified.

The first person to be reaped was a gangly boy, face covered in pimples. No older than thirteen or fourteen, and the inner leg of his pants soaked right through with urine as he walked to the raised dais where the District 12 escort stood. The host cracked some joke at the boy’s expense, but Gi-hun could only hear static.

Then, the escort thrust her hand into the other reaping ball, making a dignified attempt to create tension as she pulled the single slip of paper out.

“Ji-yeong,” the escort announced with grandeur.

A little ways away from the crowd of twelve-to-eighteen–years-olds, stood a skinny girl with bangs and neck-length choppy hair. Two Peacekeepers flanked her on both sides; her wrists were shackled, as were her ankles. A bit overkill, certainly performative. She didn’t look threatening in the least.

Her gaze was bored and her clothes, raggy, and she walked towards the escort and her fellow tribute with an unrepentant swagger on her step. She tripped a little over the legcuffs, but it was hardly noticeable with the confidence she held.

Slim, short, quick-looking, ruthless. This was the kind of girl who could compete with Sae-byeok for a place in the top five, as rarely, if ever, two stealth players made it to the end. Gi-hun made note of her in his little journal, marking her as someone to watch out for.

The host and the celebrity began discussing the year’s tributes, speculation and tasteless commentary that Gi-hun was only half listening to. He looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was almost time, turning the projection off and stashing his little notebook in the inner pocket of his shirt.

The living space outside his room was cast in darkness. The only illumination came from the floor to ceiling windows, the lights from the parties celebrating this year’s Hunger Games lighting up the sky.

“Going anywhere?” a voice asked, and Gi-hun nearly jumped out of his skin.

There, on a geometric-looking armchair, was the escort. He moved his arm in the tar darkness, finding whatever switch lit up a hidden lampshade, and muted blue pooled in a foggy circle around him. The color of the light met the scarlet of his outfit, making him look like he’d been bathed in stale blood.

“I-I.” Gi-hun forced himself to calm down. “For a walk, I’m going, eh. Downstairs. Feeling a little claustrophobic.”

“Didn’t take you for the type to enjoy a midnight stroll.”

A weighted silence followed the comment.

Gi-hun cursed himself for being so conversational with the escort. Were it anyone else, it would be a convincing act, as Gi-hun could occasionally be quite awkward. The two of them, however, had never had a civil conversation in all their time of acquaintance.

“Your backward District does have a lot more fresh air than the Capitol,” the escort saved him from replying, conceding easily enough.

Gi-hun was sure he was the furthest thing from convinced.

If all escorts were placed in the tributes’ teams to prevent what had happened during his games from happening again, District 11’s must be under even stricter orders from President Oh Il-nam to keep an eye on them. On him.

“That’s right,” he played along anyway. He dawdled, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Uh, well, good night.”

“Careful out there,” the escort called out. 

Gi-hun ignored him and left the apartment, taking the elevator and then emerging into the well-lit street below.

The Training Center was quite high security, as it was meant to house all the tributes, as well as some sponsors that elected to live the Hunger Games experience up close and personal. There was a force field surrounding the buildings, a precaution against suicide—the tributes should die at the Capitol’s terms—and the ground floor was heavily guarded.

As a mentor, however, Gi-hun was relatively free to come and go as he pleased. While victors could leave the Training Center, their movements were likely monitored and they didn’t have complete freedom to access all areas of the Capitol. 

He walked to the edge of the Training Center, on the alley between the leftmost building and the outside wall. He looked around surreptitiously, checking to see if no one was following him, but couldn’t help but also look for hidden cameras. It was a bit of a futile effort, he knew, as the games amply showed how the Capitol technology was more than advanced enough to create high-quality cameras that could avoid detection by the naked eye. Still, old habits die hard.

Next to a large trash dispenser, a figure stood, hidden by the blanket of darkness afforded by the night. The light did not reach them here, as there was only a lamppost at the mouth of the alley and the trash can hid them from its glow.

“I can’t find my way back,” Gi-hun said in lieu of a greeting, the words coming out stilted and robotic.

The woman replied, “You won’t find it here,” far more eloquently.

Gi-hun couldn’t help but remember the faces of his tributes during the reaping, the faces of their loved ones. He wasn’t sure, but it felt as though there was more urgency in his chest than in years past, at least as far as he could remember. 

It might be an impression, though, brought about by the bias of his thunderous emotions, because he remembered distinctly that he always talked back, always voiced his displeasure—

“Where will I find it?” he gritted out.

“We’re trying to build a passageway, but it’s still a dead end right now.”

He thought about arguing more, but reconsidered. He’d argued back before. He’d revolted. He’d screamed. He’d tried to take matters into his own hands, and now his mother’s blood forever tainted them.

Gi-hun hung his head and sighed in defeat.

“Okay. Sure.”

The woman hesitated.

“We’ll keep you posted.”

They shook hands and the woman gestured for Gi-hun to go ahead.

The walk back was a blur of despondency. He kept telling himself he was not disappointed, that he’d been staying realistic, but, if that were true, he wouldn’t feel like picking up a scythe, for old times’ sake, and marching up to the president’s mansion. Every year gone by had cemented the certainty that he had no more life left to live, but he’d at least hoped to leave behind a better world than the one he’d bled in.

Maybe that was asking for too much. Maybe a single man could not outswim the ocean, maybe the combined force of thousands of men could not, walking clockwise, invert the earth’s rotation.

Back on the eleventh floor, the escort, thankfully, was nowhere to be found. Gi-hun drained a glass of water and headed to bed, collapsing into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Text

At half past six in the morning, Gi-hun left his room, already in his workout clothes, to wake up the children. He pressed the button to the left of Ali's door and it slid open, unimpeded, with a mechanical whistle.

Gi-hun frowned, displeased that his warning hadn't been heeded.

“Ali,” he called. Then, “Ali.”

Ali grumbled, tossing and turning, then hid his head underneath the pillow. 

Ali was a young man with signs of labor etched onto his body, all over his wide, callused hands and strong shoulders. A poor boy with a wife and baby to feed was certainly used to waking up to the first cock crow. Could it be, then, that he’d been so restless, so anxious, that he’d only managed to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion? That he'd collapsed after wearing himself out thoroughly with worry?

Gi-hun shook his shoulder gently.

Ali jerked awake with an aborted exclamation.

“Wh—!” 

“Easy, easy,” Gi-hun soothed. “It’s just me.”

“Mister Seong?” Ali asked groggily.

“Gi-hun.”

“Gi—sorry, y—” he broke off his sentence with a yawn, “Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but the boy’s eyebags seemed to sag underneath his eyes, purple and bruised.

“It’s time to get up, huh? We should train just the three of us before you two head off to train with the rest of the tributes.”

Ali told him he’d wash up and get dressed while Gi-hun woke up Sae-byeok. Gi-hun left him to it and approached a door identical to Ali’s, set in a hallway that mirrored Ali’s own on the far side of the apartment. Sae-byeok, careful girl that she was proving herself to be, had taken Gi-hun at his word and locked her door for the night.

He knocked a few times, calling out, “Sae-byeok! It’s me, Gi-hun!”

A muffled, “Coming!” came from within the room, Sae-byeok’s gritty voice made rougher with sleep.

After a few seconds, the door slid open, the young tribute squinting through the gap. Her hair drew a messy halo around her head.

“Hm?”

“How do you feel about that training now?” he asked.

The girl straightened up, showing her eagerness in her stance.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said, sounding more alert.

“Don’t rush, I’ll see if they have anything ready for us to get a quick breakfast in, then we can head down.”

“We shouldn’t take too long,” she said. 

“It’s six-thirty, we've got time.” She looked ready to argue, so he elaborated, “You’ll train with me, rest for a little while, and then train with the rest of the tributes. Keep in mind that that last one there may be even more important than any time spent with me, hum?” 

He smiled a little, trying to appease some of her anxiety. 

“Plus, I won’t have you passing out from hunger.”

She pressed her lips together but nodded.

Gi-hun went to the kitchen and found the tributes’ Avoxes putting in the finishing touches to their breakfast. He had requested an early meal yesterday, and they’d kept to schedule.

He didn’t know these Avoxes, but he’d known a few of the ones assigned to District 11 over the years. Thieves. Deserters. Poachers. Crimes that weren’t grave enough to warrant capital punishment, but that no Peacekeeper would disregard with a simple slap on the wrist. And so these criminals fed the hungry maw of the Capitol, adding to its ever-growing list of slaves that was also ever-dwindling, as their life meant little more than that of a cockroach. They were killed off at almost the same rate that they were brought in.

Being served lukewarm tea was enough reason to put a bullet through an Avox’s head. Waking up in a mood justified getting one killed. A child could always cut off the hair of their doll, rip away its limbs, so long as they accepted that they were the ones affected by their own actions, and that killing an Avox meant disposing of one’s possession. A life worth a whim and a small bag of coins.

“Good morning,” Gi-hun greeted, though he knew they could not respond.

It was a small acknowledgement of their humanity. A taboo in the eyes of the government, the sort of thing he wouldn’t dare do if he were not alone. It was dangerous for him and even more so for them.

The Avoxes, a pair of young men, nodded in respectful greeting, keeping their eyes averted.

Gi-hun sighed.

“Can you take these to the table, please?” he asked, waving at the assortment of dishes they’d prepared.

As the Avoxes piled the bowls and plates into trays, Gi-hun went back to the dining room, where Ali was already waiting. 

“Good morning, sir. Sorry for the trouble waking up.”

So polite, standing next to the table like a schoolboy, sleepy eyes deep set in his skull. It hurt Gi-hun’s chest to look at.

“Aiya, for every unnecessary apology of yours, I’ll flick your forehead in punishment, how about it?”

He walked over to Ali and did just that, flicking him gently.

Gi-hun knew Ali’s type. Would’ve been one himself if he hadn’t been born a troublemaker. Strict, loving parents, traditional idea of what respect meant. It would’ve been nice to allow the boy to live out his—maybe, most likely—last few days in a way that felt comfortable and familiar, but this sort of kindness could not thrive in the arena, just like roses didn’t bloom in the desert. Gi-hun feared that his heart might be the thing to get him killed.

Sae-byeok came in then, looking like she’d slept as poorly as Ali. 

“G’morning,” she greeted.

“Sit, sit!” he prompted. By then, all the food had already been placed in its proper place.

It was too early for the escort to be awake, so they were mercifully free from his sour face and watchful eyes.

As Gi-hun scooped a helping of eggs into his own plate, Sae-byeok asked, “What did you mean earlier? That training with the other tributes is more important than with you?”

Gi-hun blinked, putting the spoon down. He tried to put his reasoning into words, two pairs of eyes staring at him intently.

“Well, I think that’s one of the moments that can make or break a victory. Perception of the other tributes is key.” That sounded awfully vague. He tried to make himself clearer. “That is, like, both the way you’ll be regarded—need to establish yourself as a non-threat in your case, Sae-byeok, and you can’t appear weak, Ali, but not Career-strong either. That'll make you a target. Uh, just look strong enough to hold your own and make them wanna chase the easier targets first.”

He had to impress upon them the importance of, “However good of an actor you are, try to be better.”

Gi-hun allowed his words to sink in before he continued:

“Then, your own perception of them is where you two and I will come together to try and refine a plan. I have a few notes on each of them based on their reaping ceremonies, but that’s just first impressions. You’ll get to see them in action.” With a hint of warning, he said, “Keep in mind, though, that while you’re putting up a curated front, they might be as well. Likely are, to a greater or lesser degree. Hiding skills, peacocking, everything.”

The kids were looking at him with attentive eyes, hanging on to his every word. Heat crawled up the back of his neck as the ever-present intrusive thought snuck up on him. 

Getting them trussed up for slaughter. Making sure they put on a nice show for their murderers.

“B-but we’ll get to that after lunch!” he exclaimed, waving his cutlery around with enthusiasm. “Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”

Gi-hun stuffed his mouth with a large spoonful of food, nodding and smiling as he chewed.

The children looked at him oddly but went along with his request, eating their breakfast in relative silence.

Within ten minutes, they were out of the elevator and entering a private training room numbered ‘11’. 

“Did you use to scale back home?” Gi-hun asked Sae-byeok. “Trees, I mean?”

It was a fairly common skill among District 11 children, be it for fun or with the purpose of collecting fruit.

“Yeah.”

“We'll try it on the implements here; they'll allow you to become acquainted with scaling different things.”

He gestured to the props all around them, the ropes, the climbing walls, and the complicated monkey bar set built against the far wall.

“How did you learn to climb trees?”

The girl's gaze fogged over, distant like she was staring right through Gi-hun. 

“Before I shot up a few years ago, I was usually the one who could climb highest in the orchard, so I was the first to see the flag that signals quitting time. I used a special little song that the mockingjays sang back, letting everyone know it was time to knock off.” She looked away, eyes still unfocused like she was seeing into a memory. “I used to be able to jump from tree to tree like a monkey. Not that graceful anymore, though.”

Gi-hun smiled gently.

“How did it feel?” he asked. “To jump like that.”

“Like I was flying,” she replied in an almost whisper.

He nodded, a knot of emotion coiling in his throat. He cleared it in a bid for composure.

He missed it so much, his home. He still lived on 11, but it was as if he'd never come back from the Games or, if he had, like it hadn't been the same place upon his return. Maybe he was the one who'd changed.

But he knew what she meant. Oh, he knew it too well.

“Hm-hmph.” He cleared his throat again. “Well, as you both probably know, all arenas are enclosed spaces that at least in theory try to copy natural environments. So focusing on climbing trees, cliffs, even glaciers, depending on the arena, could all be good bets for your skillset, Sae-byeok. Makes for good hiding places, because people don’t tend to look up, and for good help when you need to look for water or scout for the other tributes’ positions. Kind of like you looking for the flag.

“Glaciers are pretty tough, but I can try and teach you both the theory at least of the techniche, using pickaxes to propel yourself up. But hopefully it won't be a frozen desert, there's only been one of those that I can remember. Aside from that, we can learn the traps I told you about, some needing stuff like rope or a net, that you can find in the Cornucopia, but some can be made from scraps of your own clothing and bits of the wilderness around you. Twigs and the like.”

After he had the kids’ impressions on the rest of the tributes, Gi-hun needed to look better into potential allies for Ali. He'd do well in an alliance, if he chose his allies well and kept his head about him.

“And combat?” Sae-byeok asked.

Gi-hun laced his hands behind his back, nodding at each of them.

“So, fighting. Sae-byeok, you focus on self-defense. Ali, we can try some heavier close combat. Also see which weapon you both like best, if any. Some tributes have been known to not use weapons at all.”

Gi-hun remembered the two tributes who’d survived solely on camouflage, as well as the girl whose swimming skills had saved her in a flooded landscape a few years back.

“Gi-hun,” Ali said carefully, enunciating the name like it felt foreign on his tongue. Must be Gi-hun's old mug; poor boy had probably never called someone as ancient as him by the first name. “If you don't mind me asking… what was your arena like? You seem to be knowledgeable about a lot of things.”

Gi-hun hesitated, remembering the heat of the artificial sun, the familiar golden of the vegetation. 

“Mine looked… like home. Like wheat fields. It was a savanna, though.” 

Sweltering hot, brittle grass, no water but for a lake on the tiny oasis on the edge of the arena, around which the dozens of muttations gathered. Playing at being unbent animals. 

“The mutts were these hulking beasts, huge rhinos and crazed hyenas. If you managed to take them down, though, you had plenty of meat to eat. Not poisonous at all. More meat than you could eat before it went bad, actually. The problem was mostly lack of shelter and the fact that these animals came in packs.”

Ali nodded to show his understanding.

“As for the knowledge… Well, I dunno about ‘knowing a lot’,” he said with a hint of sheepishness, “but I try. I train almost every day at home. Study the arenas and what I know about past games to help an untrained child to win. Cause, uh, that's what most of my tributes are.”

He sighed.

“I tried to set up a Career training system on 11, like there is on 1 and 2 and, to a lesser degree, on 4. But there wasn't much interest from the children and I'm the only victor, so. Not enough money or possible instructors.”

He did not mention how the training of tributes was technically against the rules and how Districts 1, 2, and 4 were allowed to do so as a leniency. As a reward for being the best behaved, the favored children. Gi-hun, still made to walk a tightrope after all these years, his defiance still fresh in the eyes of the President, had only been granted the leniency of keeping his life.

At their loaded silence, he forced a smile that he knew made him look silly.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

Gi-hun suggested an evaluation of their physical prowess first.

Sae-byeok was quick, gangly legs deft and skillful, crossing the obstacle course Gi-hun had set up for her in an astonishing 49.4 seconds. Minor obstacles such as zigzagging cones, crawling nets, and short hurdles were easily overcome, and her relative strength was considerable, holding herself with only a bit of difficulty in the monkey bars. When he asked her to punch his hand, though, the impact wasn’t enough to even move his arm, and her form was terrible.

Ali was not a terrible runner, but quite the ordinary one. He did a lot worse on the obstacle course, tripping over a few of the cones. The only highlight was the monkey bars, through which he moved as if his weight was negligible. 

“Sae-byeok, try that,” Gi-hun suggested, pointing at the climbing net that went all the way from the floor to the high ceiling. “Don’t forget to clip yourself in,” he reminded, referring to the safety equipment.

“Here you go,” he told Ali, tossing him a pair of training gloves and then strapping his own to his hands. “Basic punch. We’re aiming for maximum impact here. So. Left foot in front of you, right foot behind and at an angle—” Gi-hun demonstrated with his body as he instructed. “Right arm goes—like this—no, fist is parallel to the floor. And when you punch, make sure your hip moves.” 

Ali copied his motion. 

“Yes, like that, the force comes from the hip, it propels the whole body. Shift the right foot at the same time, see how it comes naturally? Like you’re putting out a cigarette. Crush it beneath your toes, yeah, lift the heel.”

Gi-hun continued teaching Ali, who could actually pack a mean punch and was pretty decent at grappling. Sae-byeok did good on the climbing net as well as on the climbing wall, but was beyond terrible in physical confrontation. He was able to at least teach her how to get out of a few classic holds, but it was much more likely that someone would come at her with a weapon or a fist rather than a chokehold.

He clapped once, bringing the training session to an end.

“I think we’re good for the day. Any more and you’ll embarrass yourselves in front of the other tributes with exhaustion. Upstairs you can rest for an hour, an hour and a half, before you head down again.”

They filed into the elevator, both tributes dripping with sweat, but not appearing overly sore, as Gi-hun hadn't allowed them to overlook the half hour of stretching. They didn't even look all that tired, which meant good stamina, probably built up over years of hard labor. 

Gi-hun snorted, remembering what had been his own state as a tribute thirty years ago. To say he had been one to get tired easily was an understatement. Too much alcohol and too little work did that to a man.

At least these two had good stamina going for them.

While the children bathed and rested, soaking in a hot bath for the overworked muscles as per Gi-hun’s advice, he opened up his folders on his bed, separating the different sections into piles. 

That was years worth of information there, everything he'd gathered over decades on the most frequent sponsors, the new money eager to prove itself, and the traditional Capitolite families. From his past conversations with them, the gossip about them whispered among the victors, and their history of sponsorship, including in whom they had placed a bet and when, he was able to glean a little about which would be inclined to sponsor one of his tributes. 

Some valued strength. Some valued drama. Some valued an attractive face. Some put a lot of stock in charisma. Some preferred an underdog with potential, whose victory they could shove in their peers’ faces as evidence of their own tremendous foresight and intelligence. 

Some were more influenced by the impression made on the Tribute Parade. Some wanted to get to know the tribute before putting money on them, and found the interviews to be the most exciting part. Some thought the training score was the thing that should actually count when it came to sponsoring, and the rest was noise. Many wished to see how the tributes did in the arena, as there was nothing more embarrassing than putting money on a tribute who died in the first bloodbath.

Gi-hun wrote down a few names for him to court, and the most strategic moment to do so.

When it was time for the children to head down to the collective training, he knocked on their doors, rushing them out. When they were both waiting in front of the elevator, he reminded them,

“Ali, what will you do?”

“Learn survival techniques from the instructors. Show off my strength a little. Not draw unnecessary attention.”

Gi-hun nodded approvingly. “An alliance could be good for you. Look for people you think you’d like to ally yourself to. So long as it's not a bunch of Careers.”

They'd eat Ali up and spit out his bones.

Sae-byeok recited her own instructions without need for prompting.

“Survival techniques too. Keep an eye out for the others. Stay on the floor.”

“Attagirl. Don't let them know you plan on going airborne. If they don't associate you with treetops, it's less likely that they'll look for you there.” And to Ali, “Don't forget to keep an eye on the other tributes as well.”

The elevator chimed open on their floor.

“Off you go,” he said, feeling oddly like a parent walking the kids to school on their first day.

Parenthood. Yet another thing the Games had taken from him. He longed for it, though he wasn't sure if it was genuine desire or the allure of the impossible, as he'd never allow himself to bring a child into this world.

“Bye, dad,” Sae-byeok said dryly, and he chuckled.

If only she knew. 

He'd been fathering and losing dozens of kids over the years. 

There was privilege on District 11, undeniably, even as poverty was as pervasive as the stench of the sea on 4 or the stain of coal dust on 12. A boy like Ali, who'd put his name on the reaping ball over fifteen extra times, was not comparable to a merchant's daughter who only put hers in the mandatory amount.

Still, for all that Kang Mi-na got expensive gifts from her father, District 1 luxury items and the latest Capitol fashion, she was still one of them. When her name got reaped, she had gotten on that train under Gi-hun's tutelage like everyone else, noose tight on her neck.

At first she was in shock. She bawled like a baby on the train, threw a tantrum the likes of which would be more fitting on a three-year-old. But upon seeing the riches, the abundance, the adoration, her heart had melted, and she had bought into the Hunger Games narrative that was spun for the ones with a more romantic disposition.

Kang Mi-na had loved being loved. It helped that she was shockingly beautiful as well, which made for an astonishing amount of popularity on the Capitol. She was a favorite from the moment she smiled at the ecstatic audience for the first time.

Gi-hun was annoyed by her, by how she never took anything seriously and how she refused to acknowledge the looming imminence of her death. Still, a part of him was helplessly endeared. She did not have a single malicious bone in her body. Once, when they were training, Kang Mi-na managed to slap him when he got distracted by the other tribute almost injuring herself, and Mi-na had almost cried.

Every child should have that luxury. If only Ali and Sae-byeok were able to indulge like that. If only Ali could afford to be as kind as his heart commanded. If only Sae-byeok hadn't had to toughen up before her time.

For all that Mi-na knew more than most about the Capitol lifestyle, Gi-hun learnt that she knew very little about the Games themselves. As a child, she had created little tricks to dissociate while it was being broadcasted. Things that the whole of Panem knew by proxy were a mystery to her, especially about the way the Hunger Games functioned once the tributes entered the arena.

Kang Mi-na, predictably, hadn't lasted long, getting killed within the first five minutes after she foolishly ran for the most appetizing Cornucopia items. 

For all of her elfin, stunning beauty, the Capitol had moved on from her without a hitch. Still, Gi-hun carried her with him a little more than the rest of his past tributes because, ever since her Games, every year the Tribute Parade held the reminder of her.

Gi-hun had dressed as a farmer for his own chariot ride. The District 11 tributes five, ten years later dressed as farmers for their chariot rides. And so it went until that silly, sheltered, offensively rich girl suggested they trade the farmer outfit for vegetation. Flowers, fruits, leaves. 

The stylist had complied, dressing Kang Mi-na and her fellow tribute in colorful dresses, covered in folds of fabric mimicking apples, oranges, peaches, and fruit blossoms. Behind her trailed a golden cape made of coarse, spun wheat. 

He'd despised her for who she was and for the wealth her parents had accumulated at the expense of the rest of the District 11 children. Still, he'd cared for her.

Now, Sae-byeok and Ali stood on their chariot, dressed not unlike that girl from years ago. They looked beautiful, like woodland creatures, like faerie sprites, youthful and bright.

“You should both smile and wave at the crowd,” he’d said earlier. At Sae-byeok’s frown, Gi-hun had insisted, “At least try. Trust me.”

Theirs was the second to last chariot to leave the wings, and Gi-hun might be biased, but his tributes were the most striking of the lot. They didn't have a lot of presence, Sae-byeok too stiff and Ali too shy, but they made a handsome pair, and Gi-hun was confident they'd attract enough admiring eyes.

Gi-hun waited in the the ground floor of the Tribute Tower, watching the parade through the broadcast projected onto the wall for the tributes’ teams’ benefit.

The chariots rode slowly through the Avenue of the Tributes under deafening applause. His tributes, Gi-hun was happy to see, did make an effort, smiling and waving as the crowd yelled and threw flowers at them. A red rose came within Ali's reach and he plucked it from the air, bringing it to his face to sniff at delicately. The action seemed too candid to be intentional, and Gi-hun suspected he really just wanted to see what it smelled like.

Artificial, was the answer. Genetically enhanced, a poor mimicry of home.

The crowd went crazy, and the escort sighed by Gi-hun's side, “So dreamy…”

The chariots came to a stop in a perfect semicircle around the President's manor. Oh Il-nam, ancient and rat-faced in the unflattering close-up of the projection, smiled gleefully, clapping at the procession. 

He had always been a creepy old man. Always had had that slimy smile. Gi-hun had one bad memory too many featuring it.

After Gi-hun’s victory, he'd called Gi-hun to his personal garden, bursting with too-strong smells and too-perfect flowers. Then, he led Gi-hun through a baffling and exhausting floriography lesson, yapping about flower meanings and symbolism, whatever that meant.

Finally, he stopped in front of a peach-colored flower and said, “Orange orchids. Represent pride, enthusiasm, and boldness. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Gi-hun-ah?”

Gi-hun had blinked, startled. Although the words sounded amicable, ‘prideful’ and ‘bold’ couldn’t be good traits in the eyes of the President.

“I'm not sure what you mean, sir.”

“Now, don't be shy. Your win was an impressive display of strategy and wit. Wasn't it?”

Gi-hun had been little more than catatonic then, still feeling the phantom wetness of Sang-woo's blood soaking his hands, like grease he couldn’t wash out. When Oh Il-nam, in a nonsequitur, proposed a game of pebbles, he accepted. 

It ended up being more maths than anything else, and not only was Gi-hun really bad at math, but his heart and mind were barely in it. Oh Il-nam beat him without breaking a sweat and tutted.

He seemed mildly disillusioned, as though he'd attempted to find what it was that made Gi-hun so special, only to find that his uniqueness was merely a mirage.

Gi-hun knew he hadn’t deserved the win. Knew that he hadn't been the fastest or the smartest and certainly not the strongest. When the pebble game came to an end, Oh Il-nam nodded in a gracious way.

“It's just as well,” he said. “Too much brains often gets people in trouble. Keep that in mind, my boy.”

But whatever it was that Oh Il-nam had seen in him before Gi-hun let him down, the Districts had seemed to share his opinion. 

Months later, people would reach out to Gi-hun, tell him the reason—the untelevised reason—for his penance. That a hubbub had begun in the Districts, Gi-hun at its epicenter. They’d seen in him resistance. When he refused to kill the little boy he came across in the arena. When he'd gotten to the top five without spilling blood, not out of a desire to keep away from danger, but due to an unwillingness to kill. And, most of all, when he'd refused to deal the finishing blow and openly mourned his friend's suicide for the entire nation to see. When he'd shown no joy in winning these accursed Games.

The revolts had been swiftly repressed and punished, but the President wasn’t one to take a slight without getting a lick in.

A few weeks after his return to District 11, he came home with a basket of herbs and vegetables for his mom's soup, bought at the farmer's market. 

“Mom?” he'd called out. “I'm back.”

They had some leftover dry venison in the pantry to bulk up the stew, plus all the spices his mother was fond of, even the most expensive ones such as saffron and cardamom. She used to speak about them with some kind of awe, only having tasted them when she used to work as a cook for a rich landowner back when she was a young woman, and only ever on a tasting spoon as she corrected the seasoning.

Gi-hun was having a hard time adapting to life after the Games, plagued by nightmares more often than not and avoiding people’s eyes on the streets. He knew what they were all thinking, anyway: pity he was the one who made it. Sang-woo was really the one who deserved it. Clever, personable, athletic Sang-woo. It's Gi-hun’s fault that he's dead.

At least one good thing came out of his victory. Gi-hun could take care of his mother now, which didn't make it worth it, but it made it worth something. He'd finally amounted to more than the useless teen that skipped school to go fuck around in the black market, buying cheap liquor and playing card games on the beaten-earth floor until nighttime. Dead weight for his poor mother to carry.

“Mom?” he repeated, and entered the living room.

Then came to a halt, basket crashing to the floor.

He laid his eyes on her—wool dress tangled beneath her legs, the blood, the bullet hole, the understanding what it meant. He fell to his knees beside her. His ears buzzed, his position too similar to the one he took over Sang-woo’s body, and he kept telling himself not again not again not—

Gi-hun blinked.

Round, smooth little glass pebbles were placed innocently next to her drilled-open head. Transparent, streaked with veins of color, and the exact number of stones with which he lost the game with President Oh Il-nam in his private garden weeks ago.

The President’s smile came to mind then. The beatific, slick smile he’d bestowed upon Gi-hun after his loss. The same smile that was now reflected on the video walls mounted on the President’s manor, Gi-hun’s tributes gathered around the City Circle, thousands cheering them on.

“Tributes,” the President said, amplified croaky voice swallowing up the noise of the crowd, “we welcome you. And we wish you happy Hunger Games… and may the odds be ever,” he paused, glancing down at each of the chariots, “in your favor.”

Gi-hun wanted to shout. The same damn welcome he spouted every year, inane and meaningless. Were the odds ever in any of their favors? 

Even Capitolites seen as traitors could be murdered or turned into Avoxes. He’d seen it happen. The system only favored itself, only ever served its own purposes. 

Like an animal-driven mill, but the Districts were the animals, powering it up. It also fed on them like so much grain, grinding them to dust. 

People outside that circuit, neither working the machine nor feeding it, people in power, people like Oh Il-nam, knew that they served one master, and that it didn’t discriminate. It would have their bones if they stepped out of line, if they threatened the mill, but they fought tooth and nail for it anyway. Because, while they continued to conform, it kept them safe. And, since so few were outside the circuit, life as a person must be sweet indeed; in exchange for their loyalty, the product of the misfortunate bodies, their broken, ground bodies, was wealth for the rich to live off of.

Once President Oh Il-nam had said his piece, the tributes were dismissed and the chariots continued on their way past the manor and towards the Tribute Tower. Gi-hun looked away from the projection that was televising their retreating backs and towards their live forms as they entered the ground floor of the tower, where the victors all stood waiting for their mentees.

Gi-hun in his haste nearly got run over by the still-moving chariot.

“You did incredible,” he said softly, pride melting the ice that had built with the onslaught of memories.

“Really?” Ali asked, self-conscious.

“Really. The whole nation swooned with the rose thing! The women went insane!”

“And the men,” the escort said, coming closer.

“Ignore him,” Gi-hun said with a scowl.

The escort sighed and left to do whatever it was that he did when he wasn’t being a nuisance.

“But yes, the men too,” Gi-hun conceded when the escort was out of earshot.

Ali blushed. “T-that's not my intention, I… it was a flower, I'm. I'm married.”

Gi-hun laughed, shaking his head with fond exasperation. 

“Green and pink really suit you, y'know.”

The green cape, made up of a leaf-like material, made him look quite regal.

The boy perked up.

Sae-byeok wasn’t so pleased about her looks.

“I feel like a clown,” she said, and Ali seemed to lose some of his glow.

“What a stunning clown you make, then!” Gi-hun exclaimed.

And she was, complexion glowing with the pinks and reds and corals of her dress.

She scoffed but relented.

Gi-hun helped them step down from the chariot, insisting when they tried to brush him off.

“Now off to bed ‘cause I’ll be waking you both up tomorrow bright and early again.”

Sae-byeok’s attention wasn’t on him, but off to the side, towards one of the other chariots.

“Why is that dude staring?” she asked.

“Who?” Gi-hun said absentmindedly, assisting Ali with the removal of his cloak. The clasp was a pretty but troublesome little mechanism.

“That mentor over there. Scary guy, kinda short.”

Gi-hun, hands still working on Ali’s clasp, turned his head over his shoulder to look.

He almost jolted when his eyes met the other victor's. Gi-hun looked away immediately.

“Oh, that's, uh. Hwang In-ho. He’s not that short, really, his tributes are probably just very tall.”

She looked at him levelly. Gi-hun laughed, embarrassed.

“Eh, I-I mean. That’s the District 2 mentor. Don't mind him, he's just like that.” She still looked skeptical. He added, “Observant.”

“Hm.”

“You get used to it.”

“Does he stare at you a lot?” Ali asked with a hint of concern.

Gi-hun blinked, surprised at the line of questioning.

“We-ell. I guess? He does that with everyone. But right now he’s staring at you two. For, you know. Helping his tributes.”

They dropped the subject, for which he was thankful. 

Gi-hun, as a matter of fact, did notice over the years Hwang In-ho’s eyes on him more often than what could be dismissed as regular curiosity. The scrutiny was intimidating. He’d been a fearsome tribute, even for a Career, a legend and a record-breaker, and continued to be a frightening mentor decades later. No one knew much about him, not even Gi-hun’s best sources, nothing other than what was common knowledge.

Gi-hun was quite the ordinary victor. He had led very few tributes to victory, and none of them were alive today. He kept out of the limelight and was not the object of gossip of any kind.

Maybe, was Gi-hun’s private suspicion, Hwang In-ho had learnt about Gi-hun’s personal sorrows, heard of the murder of his mother, maybe he’d seen Gi-hun’s televised suffering as Sang-woo killed himself in front of him. 

The broken were sometimes drawn in by the broken.

Hwang In-ho’s deep, severe eyes unnerved Gi-hun. For all that he was very sorry for the tragedy of Hwang’s wife and child, he really wished to keep his distance. Gi-hun’s suffering was his own and the only feelings he could muster within himself were deep hatred for the regime and steadfast commitment to his tributes.

“Shall we?” Gi-hun asked, draping Ali's cloak over his forearm and motioning towards the elevators.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun sat on the living room couch, hands squeezed between his knees. His right leg bounced up and down, up and down as he awaited his tributes’ return from the private training session with the Gamemakers. His lungs strained and burned as if breathing in rarefied air.

“I'm thinking,” mused the escort mock-thoughtfully, “eleven and nine for our boy and girl. Y’know, respectively.”

Gi-hun snapped his head in the man's direction. All of his scattered anxiety coalesced into white-hot fury. He jumped up from the couch and crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, crowding into the escort’s space where he stood against the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Gi-hun almost pulled on impulse the small knife he kept strapped to his waist, but decided against it and let his presence loom over him, a threat in itself. 

The escort had a couple of inches on him, but Gi-hun, though thin and gauche at a first glance, was not unintimidating. He had built himself up into fighting prowess and sinew over the years, and had, for the most part, managed to retain his edge with age. 

The elevator chimed open just as the escort smirked, always smirking, forever unafraid. Gi-hun exhaled heavily and stepped away, turning around to see his tributes enter the living space together.

The urge to ask them how it had gone was great, but he had learnt over the years that tributes usually needed a semblance of normalcy before getting bombarded with questions. Until the numbers appeared on the screen, their hearts would not stop racing, vertigo blurring their eyesight, so their emotional and physical state needed seeing to first.

“Are you feeling well?” Gi-hun asked, striding towards them. “You want some water?”

He got close and saw that Sae-byeok’s face was bruised, her left cheekbone purpling and her lower lip busted open. Gi-hun touched the bruise on her cheek with the tips of his fingers, a barely-there contact, but she hissed and pulled away, eyes blazing.

Gi-hun stood there, hand hovering in the air, a stifling silence pressing down on them.

What had happened in that training room?

“It’s starting!” exclaimed the escort.

The children’s stylist and prep team joined them around the television, but no one was sitting down. Gi-hun walked from side to side, wearing a hole on the carpet, as the grades popped in the projection alongside the tributes’ faces. The Careers got 9s, 10s, and a singular 8. Teens who hadn’t been brought up in the fighting lifestyle ranged from 4 to 7. The little twelve-year-old boy from District 8 who had cried during his reaping got a 1.

Finally, the display showed a motif of District 11.

Ali Abdul's grinning face, and next to him, a number — 9.

Gi-hun, as well as the rest of the team, screamed in jubilation, the boy’s face lighting up in wonder. A part of Gi-hun felt uneasy, however, as Sae-byeok began trembling in preparation for her score announcement.

“Kang Sae-byeok, District 11,” narrated the host. She was frowning in her photo. “3.”

The celebration came to an end just as suddenly as it had begun. All eyes turned on Sae-byeok just as she leapt off the couch and walked briskly towards her bedroom without sparing a word to her team. 

Gi-hun barely heard the scores from the District 12 tributes, heart falling to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. 

“Be right back,” he mumbled. Before he left, he hugged Ali tightly and said, “Really proud of you.”

Sae-byeok’s door was closed, but not locked, and Gi-hun slipped in with just enough care to be respectful. Giving her enough time to tell him to fuck off if she so wished.

She was sitting on the window seat, staring down at the expanse of the Capitol at twilight, lit up like a rabid starry sky. She didn't glance over as he came in.

If he knew anything about her by now, it was that she appreciated a direct approach.

“It's not the end of the world.”

She snorted. 

“Really!” Gi-hun insisted. “Some tributes even get 2s, or 3s, or 4s to get the strongest opponents off their scent. As a strategy. So it's not so bad.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is,” he agreed. “I'm… out of the woods, you could say. But I was once in this exact position.”

Sae-byeok looked away from the window, eyes bitingly skeptical. 

“You got a 3?” she challenged.

“Yeah, I did,” Gi-hun agreed easily, and that seemed to catch her off-guard. When nothing else seemed forthcoming, he gestured to the other end of the window seat. “May I?”

Her only response was to move her legs minutely away, making space for him.

“I fell,” she said after a moment. “I tried to show my agility and I was climbing, and then I fell. Not even jumping from handhold to handhold; when I was still going up, my palms were sweaty and—”

Gi-hun interrupted, “You shouldn't justify yourself. You were nervous. Anyone with half a brain cell is.”

“You were?”

“Nah.” He huffed out a laugh. “The difference between you and I is that you had something to show and nerves messed you up. I just… walked in there like this was all one of the games I used to play at the wheat fields with my friends. Just—one big game.”

“Didn't you know—?” she asked with some disbelief. 

“The stakes? That all but one tribute died? Yeah.” Everyone in Panem did. “But knowing and… internalizing are different things. I don’t expect you to understand. You're a little too mature for that. Have known what this was from the start, eh?”

He smiled, laying heavy on the flattery to cheer her up. He noticed her preening a little and had to bite back a laugh. Every other compliment she'd received so far had failed to get the same result, be it over physical prowess or looks. Funny that.

After a beat, she pursed her lips and looked out the window again. There were unspoken words visibly on the tip of her tongue.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “Ask away.”

“How did you win?” 

There was a heartbreaking thread of fear and vulnerability in her words.

“I allied myself with someone stronger.”

“Oh,” she said.

She was probably thinking about how he hadn't recommended an alliance for her, only for Ali. But it wasn’t because he’d given her up as a lost cause; far from it.

He felt the need to elaborate.

“I knew him from before. A childhood friend of mine, got a 9. He was strong, athletic. Crazy smart. The only way someone like that wants to form an alliance with someone who gets a 3 is if there’s some emotional stake at play, which was our case, or if they have some use for the weaker ally. It’s an uneven partnership, and it can threaten the entire group's survival, so it usually ends in killing the weaker ally as soon as their usefulness has run its course. You’re better off letting them murder each other for you.”

Sae-byeok seemed more interested in Gi-hun’s past than in strategy for once, and asked, “How was your alliance like?”

Sang-woo illuminated by the glow of the campfire. Sang-woo covered in blood after winning a vicious fight against a Career. Sang-woo smiling from ear to ear, touching his forehead to Gi-hun’s after Gi-hun hurled his scythe like a lance, striking down a rhino that would finally sate their starving bellies.

“He tried to keep me safe in the beginning, even as I saw him getting more and more ruthless.” Gi-hun shrugged. “He wanted to live, of course. If I managed to make it out of that arena without bloodying my hands, it was because he did in my stead.”

“You didn't—?!” Sae-byeok exclaimed. 

Gi-hun shook his head with a gentle smile.

“Not a single person. But Sang-woo was keeping me for last, be it nostalgia, be it—the way us tributes have sometimes, of, of holding onto humanity in there. Like I was a token.”

The last sentence was choked out, strangled and hoarse. Truth was, Gi-hun had thumbed through those memories so much and so often in the past decades that they probably held not a shred of resemblance to the actual thing. Not Sang-woo's face, not his actions, not the way hope gave into despair. All faded, worn thin.

It was the first time Gi-hun spoke of this in three decades. People either already knew the story or were left in the dark as he chose to keep his past in the past.

“They played with us. When Sang-woo and I were one of the few tributes left, the Head Gamemaker announced that two tributes from the same district could win the Games.” Gi-hun was far away as he whispered, “Sang-woo killed them all for us. I wasn't innocent, I mean, I— I served as bait, I fought them a little, but he killed them, and then.” Gi-hun audibly swallowed. “Then the Gamemaker went back on her word.”

Sae-byeok’s mouth fell open.

“What the—! And did you kill him?!”

“I fought him,” said Gi-hun. “I carried a scythe and I fought back when he tried to kill me, and we were both fighting to kill. I was… so angry.”

She frowned. “Angry?”

“There was a little child. He kept alive by stealing food from others. Sang-woo killed him, and I—I can't even remember if it was because, because it was a violent death, or,” Gi-hun frowned, looking down at his lap, head pounding, “if it was how unaffected he looked. I asked if it were me, if we weren't from the same District and weren't allowed to win together, if he'd be this unaffected. We were arguing, waiting for them to come pick us up, when she announced the rule was no more.”

Sae-byeok just looked at him, steady, free of judgment. 

“All my frustration and impotence found an outlet in beating Sang-woo,” Gi-hun summarized. 

“And then you won,” Sae-byeok said, an almost question. 

“I fought dirty and I won. But I didn't deal the finishing blow. I couldn't. He was my friend. I tried to get him to stop playing, I wanted to force the Gamemakers’s hand, so they’d go back on their word and make us both victors.”

They can either send a meteor to kill us or we'll be here forever, Gi-hun had said as Sang-woo laid among the tall dry grass, beaten down but not beyond saving. With the proper medical attention… Please, Gi-hun begged. 

“When we were kids…” Sang-woo had choked out, “you and I would play like this… and our moms would call us to dinner. No one’s calling anymore.”

They’d used to roughhouse like this, with sticks they pretended were swords, chasing each other around the wheat fields, announcing aloud which incredible amazing unbeatable maneuver they were performing to defeat the other.

“I’m sorry,” Sang-woo said.

Sang-woo had grabbed his curved sword, and Gi-hun had imagined he'd give it his last effort to kill Gi-hun if he managed to pull himself up. 

Instead, he led the blade to his own neck, a move too sudden, and Gi-hun could only yell a garbled, wordless protest as he sliced his throat open. 

Gi-hun dropped his scythe to the floor and fell on top of Sang-woo. Gi-hun closed his palms over the gash on Sang-woo’s throat, but blood just kept pouring through the gaps of his fingers, overflowing from his hands, while Sang-woo wheezed his dying breaths. He kept mouthing a plea, my mother my mother help my mother please my mother.

Why, Gi-hun had asked, sobbing as the Head Gamemaker congratulated him over the speakers on winning that year’s edition of the Hunger Games. Why? 

He would never know, the answer lost among the unintelligible murmurs of the dead. But the only answer that had seemed feasible in all of the hundreds, thousands of times Gi-hun had wondered this exact thing was that Sang-woo had seen what Gi-hun’s naivety had blinded him to: the Capitol would never bow to two dreggers from one of the poorest Districts—never show weakness before the entire nation, never allow itself to be made a mockery.

As Sang-woo was physically incapable of killing Gi-hun himself, he chose sacrifice to ensure at least one of them survived. So his mother would be taken care of.

Logical, pragmatic Sang-woo. Yet—

“They tried to take away his humanity,” Gi-hun choked out, thinking that they'd almost succeeded, “but he was still…” 

The words refused to come out, throat swelling up with emotion. Ripping a page off Sae-byeok’s book, he looked to the side, off into the distance of the Capitolite skyline as he regained his composure. 

Gi-hun cleared his throat, tried again: “President Oh Il-nam played with us. He never intended to let us both live. And that is the truth. This is what the Games are about.”

Sae-byeok looked at him strangely, for so long Gi-hun began to feel self-conscious. He felt wetness on his cheeks and embarrassedly wiped his tears away with the backs of his hands.

“You loved him,” she said, and it was not a question.

Gi-hun blinked at her with some surprise. Love? 

He had loved Sang-woo as a dear friend, albeit not a close one—they hadn't been close for many years by the time they were both reaped. But Sang-woo was someone he watched, admired from afar, someone who represented happier times and hope that the future could hold some happiness still. He was perseverance and prosperity to overcome the worst of circumstances, and Gi-hun had looked up to him in a way that meant ‘maybe I could, someday, amount to something too’. 

Despite all that… had he really never seen Sang-woo in another light? He allowed the idea to take root, trying, flawed as the attempt was, to revisit yet again those memories. 

The very thought of loving his old friend made him feel dirty, but so did every other feeling he associated with Sang-woo. Suffused with guilt and self-loathing. 

Sang-woo had been handsome in a bookish way. Tall, too, and Gi-hun was a tall man himself, but he could still remember as much. The feeling of being smaller than, if only slightly, of being narrower around the waist and shoulders, the thrill of watching Sang-woo defend the both of them with his vicious skill with a sword. 

He had trained by himself for a couple of years, Sang-woo had confided back in the Tribute Tower, on the off chance that he ever got reaped. Hidden from the Peacekeepers as he tried to prepare as best as he could, taking notes from watching the Careers fight in the Hunger Games and breaking apart the techniques to replicate them.

His approach would one day inspire Gi-hun's method of training his tributes. Brilliant, wunderkind Sang-woo, always Gi-hun's bright guiding star. 

Gi-hun tried to imagine a world in which they'd both survived. Maybe adopted a little orphan or two. They'd wake up in the morning and share a light meal, get to work on their little family farm—a rare phenomenon, as most land on 11 was latifundia, but they'd find a way. At night, after Gi-hun finished putting out the lights in the house and checked that the children were asleep, they'd share a long, familiar kiss in bed. Safe in the knowledge that they had been each other's since childhood, and would be each other's until their peaceful deaths from old age.

“Maybe I did,” Gi-hun conceded. Shook his head in sorrow, “I can't even tell anymore.” 

Was it longing that he felt? Grief? Guilt?

He laughed humorlessly. 

“I just didn't want any more dying.”

Sae-byeok looked at him with those deep, dark eyes, far too old for her age.

“That would be a nice motto to live by.”

Gi-hun had nothing to say to that. They sat there in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. 

Eventually, Gi-hun thought he had taken too much of her time and that she ought to go to sleep. He bid his goodbyes and let his hand linger for a beat too long atop her head.

Soon, the kids had the interviews with the host. Sae-byeok needed it to work in her favor with a desperation. Gi-hun wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight, needing to think of ways to improve their strategies and talking points. Their lives depended on it.

Twas the night before the Hunger Games, and the interviews were underway. 

The backstage, a large tent set up in the City Circle, was crowded with the tributes and their mentors. On stage outside, the first of the District 2 children, the female volunteer, confidently sprawled on her seat, answering questions without hesitation. She was impressing the live audience with her self-assurance, the precise blend of arrogance and cold humor that had the Capitolites eating out of a tribute’s hand, falling over themselves to bet on their victory.

Gi-hun glanced at the District 2 team waiting backstage, the other tribute—a boy of fifteen who had a perpetual sneer on his upper lip and who was, according to Ali and Sae-Byeok, quite proficient with a spear—clenching and unclenching his fists in anticipation of his turn. His mentor, Hwang In-ho, stood beside him as still as a sentinel, head held high, hands clasped behind his back.

In-ho, much like Gi-hun, hadn’t conformed to the Capitol’s flamboyant fashion standards. His outfit spoke of sobriety, a midnight blue suit and midnight blue turtleneck to complement his tributes’ lighter shades of azure and teal. He looked effortlessly good in it, though, and Gi-hun adjusted his own outfit with an unwelcome burst of self-consciousness.

The female District 2 tribute ended her interview with a smile and a crisp bow to the audience, and left the stage under enthusiastic applause. Her mentor squeezed her shoulder in wordless approval, then sent off his other tribute to talk to the host.

The boy was the sadism to his female counterpart’s pragmatism. For how young he was, he seemed quite self-assured, and claimed that, in another year, he would’ve been ‘volunteering like her, just because people don’t take tributes as young as me seriously. But my mentor’s done it, and I’m about to do it again’.

A bold claim if Gi-hun had ever heard one.

The applause that followed the boy's departure was even more deafening than that of his District mate. Gi-hun was admittedly staring, so he saw when Hwang In-ho kept his hands behind his back as the boy drew near, and the young tribute frowned. Gi-hun focused on In-ho’s lips, and thought he saw him saying, careful.

What was he warning the boy about? The dangers of making enemies? But Careers never worried about that. This sort of prey mentality did not apply to hunters. 

Was Hwang chastising the boy for his arrogance, then? It was certainly distasteful to Gi-hun.

Or perhaps Hwang was simply annoyed that the kid wanted to outshine him, even though it had been an empty claim. Even if he won, he wouldn’t be breaking or even matching his mentor's record. After all, Hwang had won at fourteen, not fifteen, and as a volunteer no less.

The District 2 team did not wait backstage for the interviews to end. The trio turned from the television, utterly uninterested in their enemies, and Gi-hun panicked a little when he noticed that they were heading his way. Gi-hun snapped his gaze back to the projection of the District 3 interviews, keeping it glued to the screen as his heart increased its pace by a couple of beats. 

At that moment, he had one thought and one thought only in his mind: avoid those eerily searching eyes. 

When he felt the weight of bodies walking by him, he exhaled in relief. 

It seemed he'd counted his chickens before they hatched, though, because in the following second he heard:

“Mister Seong,” Hwang In-ho’s smooth voice said next to him, almost making him jump. 

His tone didn’t carry the finality of a parting nod, but rather the upward lilt of a conversation starter.

The tangible weight of his proximity was unnerving. Gi-hun closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing around a dry throat.

In all these years, they’d never exchanged more than a handful of words at a time. What was it that made Hwang any different from the rest of the mentors?

He looked toward his fellow victor and saw him looking levelly up at him, flanked by his two formidable tributes. As a unit, Gi-hun thought, they had a staggeringly intense presence.

“Mister Hwang.” He nodded at the man and then at his tributes. “Great interviews the both of you.”

The girl nodded back and the boy’s eyebrow twitched. Gi-hun wasn’t, to say the least, the most respected victor around, so he didn’t begrudge him the rudeness.

Dark, dark, nearly unblinking eyes swallowed up Gi-hun’s face. Ants crawled over Gi-hun's arms. After a few seconds of silence, Hwang said,

“You’re standing in the way.”

Gi-hun jolted and looked behind himself, seeing that he was indeed blocking the exit.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “O-oh, sure, I—”

He moved to the left, waiting for the small entourage to pass. Hwang In-ho nodded in thanks and wished him, “Happy Hunger Games,” as he left.

“Right back…” they were already gone, but Gi-hun felt that he would lose more face if he dropped the sentence midway through, so he lamely finished, “at you.”

A beat of silence.

“That man creeps me out,” Sae-byeok said bluntly, scowling at the empty doorway.

Me too, Gi-hun thought.

Without a full conversation, with only those blasted eyes of his, Hwang In-ho seemed to challenge Gi-hun in an unbearable way. He looked at Gi-hun like he was searching for what else was there, other than a man eaten away by survivor’s guilt. Other than wannabe rebel, than mentor, than grieving son and friend.

Though it was certainly not Hwang’s intent—he was likely driven by nothing more than simple curiosity—the thought unsettled Gi-hun. The idea that there might be nothing there at all was frightening. The opposite was even worse; the possibility that something lurked just beyond his own awareness, grown like mold while his attention laid elsewhere.

He shook the interaction off like he did every time, thinking that, with any luck, he’d be able to avoid Hwang In-ho for the next year or two. 

He and his tributes refocused on the interviews, waiting for District 11’s turn.

Sae-byeok went first. Gi-hun was scared out of his mind, vaguely nauseous in the stomach and tapping his foot to keep from pacing back and forth in front of the other teams. 

Yesterday, she’d had three hours with the escort to learn presentation—mostly learning how to walk on heels, sit, and posture, as well as maintain eye contact, smile, and make the appropriate hand gestures.

The preparations with Gi-hun consisted of coming together to figure out a way to create a persona that felt agreeable to her, was doable, and allowed him to get something in terms of sponsors. At the end of a four-hour long session, they’d decided that she might not be charming, might not be the wittiest tribute, but she had the fierce aloofness and mystery that drew people in, even though she failed to see those traits in herself. 

She’d volunteered to save her brother. She’d looked striking in the chariot ride. As far as Gi-hun could tell and according to what his sources had told him, people were intrigued by her. 

The training score was really working against her, but, if she managed to make an impression, she might be able to garner some support yet.

“Kang Sae-byeok from District 11, everyone!” the host announced.

Gi-hun was tense, as the host could be quite callous, so long as it fit his peculiar brand of humor. 

Historically, there was a high turnover of hosts, and this one had already been hosting for six years, the longest in all the time Gi-hun had been a victor. If he found something to have comedic potential, he didn’t hesitate to joke about it, regardless of whether it was at the expense of the most vulnerable tributes. His only priority, as far as Gi-hun could tell, was to cement his popularity and avoid being laid off.

Sae-byeok left the tent and met him on stage in front of the armchairs set out for the interviewees. She kissed him on each cheek and sat down, a little stiff but holding herself in a more graceful manner than usual. 

At least the escort was good for something.

“A floral dress again, I see,” the host pointed out. “I imagine it must remind you of home. Tell us, Sae-byeok, the nation wants to know: how was your life like in District 11?”

“I worked in an orchard,” she said succinctly.

Gi-hun began chewing at his thumb nail. The line between mysterious and ‘dead slug’ was very thin indeed. As it was, she was presenting herself as someone as compelling as drywall.

The host paused, waiting for her to complement her statement.

“That’s it?” he asked, blinking with affectation. His next question was directed at the crowd, “Not much of a talker, is she?”

The gathered crowd laughed in a way that toed the line between good-natured and mocking. Gi-hun exhaled heavily and felt Ali shift uneasily next to him.

Sae-byeok pursed her lips for a moment, then forced a smile.

“It’s a dual orchard. We plant, eh, apple and pear there. In the spring, the blossoms look—” she looked down at her dress, floral like the one she'd worn for the parade, but in lighter shades and an almost diaphanous fabric. “Just like this.”

“What sort of work did you do there?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Anything that might help you in the arena?”

Sae-byeok gave him a winning smile, so bright that Gi-hun blinked, stupefied. He hadn’t imagined her capable of it, especially not on camera.

“Well, that’s for you to find out, no?”

“Oh, cheeky! I lo-vit!”

He laughed uproariously alongside the rowdy audience.

“Now, whether this little lady is peacocking or not is indeed for us to decide, huh?” the host asked, like a snake baring its fangs. “We could give her the benefit of the doubt. Tributes have been known to get a low score on purpose.” 

He didn't sound like he thought that was the case.

Sae-byeok visibly froze, at a loss of what to say. 

Gi-hun had coached her on a few clever deflections—witty remarks to dodge questions about her training score—but he knew all too well that rehearsed lines rarely held up under real scrutiny.

“I guess so,” she said stiltedly.

The awkwardness spread throughout the audience, muffled whispers moving between the rows of people, and even the host didn’t feel like kicking this particular fallen dog.

“Well, on a happier note—! Sae-byeok, there is something I feel we must address.” His voice was quieter, more solemn. “The moment they called your brother’s name at the reaping. What did you feel then? Was it… instinct that drove you to volunteer?”

She still looked shaken from the previous question, blinking slowly. This one wasn't any easier: she had struggled a lot with this predictable line of questioning while they had been preparing. She felt that it was a bastardization of her feelings to display them so wantonly to garner sympathy. Still, Gi-hun had managed to argue that these same feelings commanded that she return to her brother, and she could only do that with the help of sponsors.

“The need to protect him was stronger than anything else,” she replied at last, somber.

“Even than even self-preservation,” the host breathed out dramatically.

She nodded.

The audience cooed, as did the host, like she was some cute little animal.

“Such a beautiful sentiment. Thank you for sharing.” He wiped away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye.

“And your brother? Can you tell us a little about him?”

Sae-byeok huffed, not quite a laugh. Her rough voice turned grittier with emotion. Gi-hun noticed that she looked more comfortable talking about her brother than about herself.

“He’s a little punk. Never accepts that I’m the big sister. I caught him trying to sneak out to put tesserae on his name, can you believe?”

She shook her head fondly.

Gi–hun felt his eyes burn and blinked away the moisture. He hadn’t known that either. He could picture it clear as day: Sae-byeok and her brother, in a simple shack-like house that the poorest of their District lived in, somewhere similar to Gi-hun’s former home. She would slap the little boy, chase him around the table, maybe twist his ear in punishment when she caught up to him, screaming back and forth with him like a premature, overprotective mother.

The host looked a little caught off guard, but he recovered soon enough.

“Well, he can’t have been happy you volunteered in his place, then. What did he say to you? After the reaping?”

“That he’d haunt me forever if I let myself die.”

“More threatening words have never been spoken,” the host said with exaggerated grandeur, shaking with mock-fright. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”

“Very,” Sae-byeok quipped with a smile.

The host opened his mouth to reply when the buzzer went off. 

Each interview only lasted three minutes before the next tribute was up. Sae-byeok bowed to the host then left, almost tripping on her skirt on her way to the tent.

Backstage, Gi-hun and Ali ran to meet her. Gi-hun hugged her tight, burying his face on her coiffed hair and inhaling in relief.

“Amazing, you were amazing.”

He let go of her to give Ali room to hug her as well. 

The tributes hadn’t known each other prior to the reaping, but they seemed to have formed a quick and strong bond. They were both responsible and strong; Ali forgave her her harsh edges and Sae-byeok was mellowed out by his level-headedness.

Gi-hun noticed some odd looks, but he paid them no mind. Unless it was dangerously rebellious, he was used to allowing his children their humanity. However, he knew it wasn’t done, touching or acknowledging one’s fellow tribute, as if the Games had already begun. Publicly appearing not as adversaries but as friends stood out like a sore thumb, but it was Gi-hun’s way, and had been so ever since he howled his grief over Sang-woo’s body.

Gi-hun noticed that they were waiting on Ali and shooed him out onto the stage.

“Ali Abdul, from District 11! A round of applause for the proud papa!”

The host asked Ali about his child, his wife, and tried to draw an emotional response from Ali in a similar fashion to Sae-byeok. Ali, however, was more open about his own feelings, and, sensing this, the host asked him to stare into the camera and send his family a message.

“My angel, I miss you every second of every day I’m not with you. I promise I will do whatever is in my power to get back home… to you… to watch our little boy grow up. Take his first step,” Ali choked a little on his feelings, clearing his throat. Gi-hun frowned, heart aching. “Say his first word.”

The host extended a box of tissues to Ali and the boy took it, wiping his eyes and nose discreetly. He looked a little embarrassed at his outburst.

“Eh, sorry. It’s just a lot.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” the host said, compassionate. “The ladies of Panem might not be so understanding, though. Lover boy, they were calling you after you picked up that rose! You’re leaving a trail of broken hearts behind you.”

Ali blushed, bunching his used tissue on his fist.

“I just wanted to smell the flowers.”

“Oh?” asked the host. “You like flowers a lot?”

“I do the pruning of the trees by hand, shaping growth with shears and, and saws. When it’s the season, the smell wafts right into my nose when I’m working.” He smiled. “It’s the best part of the year.”

Giggles and coos came from the crowd, coy and adoring.

“And there he goes again! Sorry, everyone, this one’s taken!”

“Very much so!” Ali agreed enthusiastically.

“You said you prune trees… is that how you lost those?” the host wiggled two fingers of his left hand.

Gi-hun frowned. Coming from anyone else, he wouldn't think much of it, but the host had a serpent's tongue and no mercy to speak of.

“Yeah… I was thirteen then. A work accident.”

“Yet you still managed to get quite the score despite your handicap. Congratulations!”

Gi-hun snarled at the back of his throat, disgusted. Of course. He wanted to punch himself for his incompetence; he hadn't prepared Ali for a comment on his missing fingers. Why would he try to defend Ali's strength when it was undeniable, further proved by his stellar training score? But Gi-hun had thought as himself rather than as a Capitolite. He should've known that all they saw when they looked at the Districts was a bunch of working animals, and that a wounded animal was damaged goods.

That was the sort of thing sponsors took into consideration. The sort of thing Gi-hun should’ve prepared for.

The worst part was seeing Ali’s mood sour, his easygoing manner hardening into a tentative look.

“He can’t—!” Sae-byeok protested by Gi-hun’s side, furious.

It was a condescending and demeaning thing to say. It hurt Ali’s chances at a sponsorship and his pride. It was also really rich coming from a pampered Capitolite who’d never known a day of hard work in his life.

Gi-hun pictured a thousand answers Ali could have given to that. Anything to show he was strong, a way to bite back, to tell everyone not to count him out.

I can still kick any ten-fingered person’s ass.

If I’m doing this well like this, then my fingers must not be that much of a ‘handicap’.

Anything.

“Thank you,” Ali responded instead, far too meekly.

Gi-hun hung his head, nodding to himself, trying to think of a way around this. 

Tonight had appeased some of his concerns and created new ones, regarding both of his tributes. Nothing was lost yet, but there was work to do.

Once his interview was through, Ali walked through the curtain and came to a stop next to Gi-hun, who hugged him close to his side with one arm.

“I'm s—”

“Hey, it's okay. It’s not on you.”

“But I—”

There were too many eyes on them. Gi-hun shook his head and interrupted,

“We’ll talk later. Let’s stay for the District 12 interviews and then we go, hum?”

The children nodded, inhaling deeply. Gi-hun could see the fear in their eyes.

Sae-byeok extended a hand and clutched Ali's own over Gi-hun's stomach, the three of them connected as one.

A grim knowledge hovered over them.

Tomorrow, the two tributes would be entering the arena, and at least one of them would not be coming out.