Chapter Text
Kenma never looked forward to the Reapings. No one did, is what he inferred from anyone who was old enough to understand the consequences – unless you were one of the hopeless idealists from the first three districts. Because if your name was pulled, you would die. Only one tribute out of twenty-four would survive. The odds were never in anyone’s favor.
He was pushed into the courtyard by crowds of anxious adults, clutching the hands of their children, praying that their kid’s name wouldn’t be drawn. Praying for it to be a teen standing next to them. Kenma was no different. He squeezed his mother’s hand. His name was only in the drawing five times. Statistically, he shouldn’t be picked. But the Reaping had never been about statistics.
This was Kenma’s fifth year living in District 5. Before, he lived with his mother and father in District 1, experiencing all the benefits of having a former Hunger Games victor as a father. They got whatever they wanted and needed, and his father was treated like a hero – especially since he coached the new tributes every year. For – Kenma had to count – eight years now. His father hated it. From a young age Kenma had been drilled with the belief that the Capitol was evil. The Hunger Games were evil. It was not a game, and sooner or later, a rebellion had to happen. The problem was, no one wanted to lead a resistance movement. Not when they got shut down so often, not when it meant certain death. We just haven’t had one big enough, his father would say.
Arata Kozume was not that leader. Once, perhaps – but not with a family, not with Kenma and his mother. His small acts of defiance were enough; more than enough. It was a passing, anti-Capitol comment made to the public that resulted in Kenma and his mother being ripped away from him five years ago. Honestly, thinking of it now, Kenma was lucky to be alive. The simple fact that the government hadn’t killed his whole family was a miracle. Arata must be too important to them.
“Kenma,” his mother whispered, giving his had a squeeze, “we’ll be fine. Just like every year. Don’t worry so much.”
They had only taken extra grain once, during a bad winter, and out of complete necessity. Kenma’s mother was loathe to have his name in the drawing more than absolutely necessary. Though he never voiced her thoughts directly, Kenma gathered that she was frightened the Capitol would draw him on purpose, just to destroy his father. A very, very plausible idea.
Kenma Kozume is not a brave man. His palms gathered sweat in the crevasses as the District 5 escort stepped up to the platform. His stature resembled that of a scarecrow, as Capitol fashion seemed to encourage. Kenma never bothered to learn his name. A silence swept over the crowd, tense and palpable.
“Good morning, District 5, and welcome to the Reaping for the 75th annual Hunger Games!” He flashed a brilliant smile at the unresponsive crowd. “As you know, this year will be a Quarter Quell game, which means there will be a twist! If you recall, it was announced last week – the tribute pool will not be divided by gender. Additionally, volunteers will not be accepted this year. Those who are pulled are those who are competing in the Games. But before we get to the Reaping – a message from the Capitol!”
Like all the previous years, a large screen covered the space behind the platform. It flickered to life, and the same message that played every year began.
“War. Terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child.” Images of starving children and crying mothers flashed across the screen, followed by a formation of soldiers marching. “This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. And then came the peace, hard fought, sorely won. A people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitors were defeated we swore as a nation that we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed that each year the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a constant reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future.”
It made Kenma sick. Half the nation was hopelessly brainwashed by Capitol propaganda. Half the nation willingly sent their children into the Hunger Games truly believing it was an honor. Twenty-three children were murdered every year. For the sake of peace. Kenma’s hands clenched into fists and his mother shot him a knowing look. She was thinking the same thing.
“Okay! It’s time for the Reaping, ladies and gentlemen. May the odds be ever in your favor.” He reached into the only bowl on the platform. Kenma’s heart clenched, even though with combining the two pools of tributes, the likelihood of his name being drawn was even lower.
His hand emerged with a slip of paper. “Taketora Yamamoto.”
Absolute silence. Kenma’s eyes scanned the crowd until he saw a boy his age walk purposefully up the stairs to the platform. Kenma recognized his face, though he had never had a conversation with him. His face was carefully composed, though eyebrows lowered ever so slightly – the only telling of his despair.
The escort’s hand delved into the bowl again. Kenma could feel his mother’s rapid heartbeat through her fingers.
“Kenma Kozume.”
“No!”
His mother’s hands enveloped him immediately and she took several steps back, causing Kenma to stumble. He looked at the platform in shock. His name. They called his name. He was going to the arena. He would die.
“You!” His mother pointed a finger at the escort. “You set this up! You pulled him on purpose you –“
Her body went suddenly limp and Kenma gasped, nearly falling over. A Peacekeeper pried her off of him, a cudgel in his hand. Before Kenma had the chance to bristle and react to the assault, another Peacekeeper had him by the arms and forced him up the platform. Yamamoto and the escort were visibly shocked, their mouths open and eyes wide. But with a nod from the Peacekeeper, the escort composed himself and cleared his throat.
“Well, let’s give a warm welcome to your tributes! Taketora Yamamoto and Kenma Kozume!”
The crowd applauded, if only because a ring of Peacekeepers had formed around them, their guns held threateningly. It occurred to Kenma through the haze of shock that this was all being televised. Did the whole nation just see his mother assaulted? His heart dropped; the Capitol must have seen. What would they do to her?
***
The escort gave Kenma and Yamamoto an hour to say goodbye to friends and family, though they weren’t allowed to leave the small, heavily decorated room on the train. Kenma could hear a constant stream of chatter from Yamamoto’s room across the hall. Kenma was alone. He didn’t have anyone besides his mother that he was close to anyway, but the fact that she was probably being killed somewhere churned his stomach and numbed his body. He spent the entire hour with his legs pulled up, his head in-between his knees, tears running down his face.
A knock came at the door.
“Mother,” he whispered, knowing full well it wouldn’t be her. He wiped the tears from his face and forced his head up as the door slid open.
“Hey…” It was Yamamoto. Judging by the red rings around his eyes, he had been crying as well. Of course. He just said goodbye to his loved ones. He’ll probably never see them again.
The boy hesitated for a moment, the sat next to Kenma on the sofa. He looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end opted for rubbing soothing circles on Kenma’s back.
“I know…that we don’t really know each other…but… We’re in this together, Kozume.”
“Kenma…” Kenma kept his gaze trained on the opposite wall, and his voice shook ever so slightly. “Call me Kenma.” He didn’t want to be associated with the name Kozume any more than he already was. “Then, Kenma, I have your back.” He took a deep breath. “And you can call me Taketora. Did…” He paused. Kenma could imagine him biting his lip. “Did anyone come to see you…?”
“No. …you saw what they did to my mother.”
Taketora didn’t respond, and Kenma internally thanked him. He didn’t need any reminders that his mother was most likely dead – he could feel himself tearing up again. But Taketora’s touch was bizarrely comforting, and he held it together.
“Ahem.” A guttural cough came from the entrance to the room. A tall man stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and jaw set. He had golden hair – though Kenma could tell by the eyebrows that it wasn’t natural – pushed out of his face by a headband.
“Ukai!” Taketora stood up and bowed to the man. Kenma recognized him as the District 5 victor from four years ago. It had been the first time Kenma had watched the Games outside of District 1, and he remembered feeling an odd sense of pride at watching his new district win.
Ukai’s grandfather had been the previous mentor for perhaps twenty years. He turned down all the new victors in his time (and he had ensured several wins for District 5 – four or five, if Kenma recalled his reading correctly) so that he could remain the sole mentor, and hopefully ensure more wins. But when his grandson was reaped, he stepped down from the post, too frightened, even after Ukai won.
“I’d like to apologize, firstly, and give my condolences.” Ukai rubbed the back of his neck and lit a cigarette, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I know this isn’t a position anyone wants to be in…and…this is my first time mentoring…” He sighed deeply. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. But I’ll say this right off the bat – you don’t play the Games to win. You play to survive. Do not enter that arena with the idea in your mind that you’ll win. Think only of survival. Don’t get cocky.”
“What are you saying?” Taketora countered immediately, lurching off the couch. Kenma wished he could sink into the cushions and disappear from this whole mess. “Don’t count us out yet! You won! Don’t go telling us that we can’t!”
“I’m telling it like it is, kid. Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not giving up on you…” The rest of his sentence was lost in inaudible mumbling. His gaze turned toward the interior of the train, and he beckoned to them. “Come on.”
Taketora bristled, but his words were lost as Kenma struggled off the couch and followed Ukai. Taketora trailed behind him.
The train looked like District 1. It was much cleaner than District 5 and had a lux feel to it – plush, antique chairs lined the walls. A dark, rich wooden table took up most of the room in the cart they stood in. Directly in front of the table was a large TV. Kenma gasped and stopped in his tracks – the décor looked the same as his old house in District 1. District 1 designed luxury goods, after all…he wouldn’t be surprised if they designed the trains. A grimace forced itself onto his face. It felt like nostalgia had swept down and punched him in the gut.
“Kenma…?” Taketora’s face entered his field of view. He was frowning.
“We’re going to watch the other Reapings,” Ukai interjected, not paying Kenma any mind. He sat down at the wooden table and pressed a button on the remote. The TV beeped once and turned on. “Sit. I want us to see our competition.”
They joined Ukai at the table. Kenma forced his mind away from the past and trained his eyes on the TV. While he didn’t particularly care about the other contestants, it’d be interesting to see the tributes from the Career districts. Especially District 1. He wondered briefly if he would know any of the contestants. He hoped not. Two years ago he had recognized a friend, and it left a void of despair in his chest. He had watched her die.
Kenma could tell by the eagle symbol in the top right corner of the screen that this was an official Capitol broadcast. No doubt all the districts would be looking perfectly compliant, then.
The countdown started with District 12. Two boys were chosen. An awkward looking one with freckles and a tiny one with dusty hair. He didn’t bother committing their names to memory. A huge, intimidating boy with white hair was chosen for District 11, alongside a small blonde girl. She was shaking with terror, but kept her face cheerful and bubbly. Kenma frowned.
He took note of one of the District 10 tributes, if only because his hair was the most shocking shade of orange he had ever seen. He was fairly certain the escort had called him Shouyou Hinata. The boy had to be pushed to the front of the crowd, and once on the platform, he stood rigid, not moving a single muscle. Poor kid was probably terrified. His partner had a similar reaction, though he was trembling slightly, like the blonde girl.
Again, two boys were reaped for District 9. All that Kenma noticed was that he didn’t like their haircuts. A ridiculously tall, lanky blonde was chosen for District 8 alongside a beautiful girl with black hair. They both wore glasses. Kenma tried to find humor in the situation. Another male/female pair was picked for District 7, and Kenma began to wonder why the Capitol even bothered combining the drawing pools. What purpose was it serving?
Everyone in the room shivered at the first District 6 tribute. He was bigger than the white-haired one from District 11 and toted around a stare that could turn anyone to stone. His partner, by comparison, didn’t even seem to exist.
The scene shifted to show District 5. Kenma tensed. Taketora’s name was called, and the silence that followed shook him to his bones again. Then scarecrow-escort called Kenma’s name – and the camera jumped. Kenma watched himself stand still on the platform, his face blank. For a brief moment the Peacekeepers lining the crowd were visible, pointing their guns inward. Then the scene jumped forward again. Kenma was simultaneously relieved and frustrated beyond belief. Of course they wouldn’t show his mother’s resistance – the districts had to be portrayed as loyal subjects for the benefit of the blissfully ignorant population of the Capitol. He clenched his hands.
Kenma forced himself to start paying attention. Districts 4, 3, 2, and 1 made up the Career pack. This would be his real competition. The people he had to avoid. Two males were picked from District 4 – a pathetically small one with multicolored hair that seemed to defy gravity, and a rather loud one with a shaved head. The tributes from District 3 seemed polar opposites of each other. One had a gentle smile and sad eyes – had the escort said Sugawara? – and the other had a frown to match the giant from District 6. Tobio Kageyama, the escort had said. He committed the name to memory.
The first tribute picked for District 2 was ecstatic. He was all smiles and winks, showing off his ego like a new toy – he would be a fan favorite, Kenma could already tell. But when the second boy was called – Iwaizumi, or something like that – the first tribute’s face fell. It was brief, but Kenma could read the horror on his face. Then he smiled again, flinging his arm around the other boy and laughing. It was fake. Kenma felt bad for them. They probably knew each other – they were probably good friends. At least one of them would die.
The scene changed to District 1, and Kenma leaned forward, his knuckles white from the grip on his pants. Please, don’t let it be someone I know.
“Daichi Sawamura!”
Kenma breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd cheered, and a rather plain boy walked onto the stage, forcing a smile and waving. His behavior seemed odd, Kenma thought, for District 1 tributes almost always wanted to compete. It was viewed as an honor. Perhaps they were starting to wake up.
“Tetsurou Kuroo!”
No. No no no no no no no. Kenma stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating – no. Not Kuroo. This was a boy he knew. This was the boy who had been his best friend since they were five years old. This was the boy he had missed when he was taken away in the middle of the night, unable to say goodbye. Kenma’s eyes raked his body as he stepped onto the platform with Sawamura. He had grown significantly, but his hair was still a ridiculous mess, and as the camera zoomed in, Kenma knew it was the same face, same clever eyes. Tears pooled behind his lashes, and he found himself biting his tongue and covering his mouth with a hand. Kuroo waved to the camera, smiling slightly, and Kenma wanted to vomit. On his right wrist was a silver bracelet with a cat paw charm.
“He still wears it,” Kenma whispered, not realizing he was speaking aloud. A strangled sob escaped him next. He fumbled in the pockets of his pants before pulling out a bracelet identical to Kuroo’s. When they were kids they wore the charms all the time; it was their mark of friendship. Kuroo still wore his, after all these years… Kenma clasped it around his left wrist, his breaths shaky and uneven. He barely registered Ukai switching off the TV.
“Kenma…?” It was Taketora’s voice again.
Kenma simply shook his head. He could feel their gazes on him – even Scarecrow was here now – but he refused to look up. He couldn’t do this. He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over, and fled the room, locking himself in the small compartment with a couch he had been forced to stay in earlier.
He cried. Sobbed, would be a more accurate word. For his mother, his father, Taketora, all the contestants that would die – and for Kuroo.