Chapter Text
An artificial moon crosses over the midline of the sky, and Hermes digs his nails into his fist, gives a silent cheer. He’s made it to his birthday. He’s turned nineteen. The big one. In the Outlying districts, this is the age that means being safe from the games, safe from people like Hermes. He doesn’t care so much about being safe, being protected. He’s a Career tribute, a future Victor, and since he decided to go into the Arena, he’s been ready for this.
God, how many years has it been since he decided?
Surely there was no going back after the Reaping. After shouting his own name over the meaningless one drawn out of the goldfish bowl. Pronouncing it right, with emphasis on the second syllable. ‘Course, it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing, either. He rehearsed “I volunteer” in the mirror a thousand times. He dressed that morning in an understated suit, charcoal-gray, woven with shimmering golden threads that caught the light perfectly and a weave that hugged his muscular frame. The fitting, three months back, was with a stylist hired straight from the Capitol, a strange and twitchy woman who’d patted his stomach and told him to watch his weight.
A remark that didn’t sting and barely registered. He was of course accustomed to weighed-out meals delivered at precise hours alongside macronutrient printouts, and vitamin shots in the large muscles of his buttock, because it was all part of the training. Honing his body and mind, teaching him to use swords and nets and axes and spears; the gym was always his favorite place at the Academy, his outlet, his refuge when things go to be intense. He’d lift the bar a few times and feel like himself.
Intense was the word, or prestigious, or exclusive. The academics were rigorous. His prospects were rosy. Alumni were famous. Bonds were blood-formed. He’d moved into the dormitory at twelve years old. Received his acceptance letter at ten and a half. Interviewed at ten. Requested the application forms at eight.
A big eight, to be clear. Tall and husky, corn-fed, wispy hairs appearing on his underarms already. A child with an overgrown face that made him look capable. The kind of boy who bullied, who was picked first for kickball at recess, who demanded two portions of his snack and then was given them. His awkward birth date, after the reaping but only by a couple weeks, meant he was always a little too old for his grade. There were a lot of summer birthdays at the academy. July came each year with over a dozen red-icing names crammed onto a sheet cake.
Even before the academy, he’d been a high achiever. Decent grades, not perfect, plus afterschool soccer and and archery and football and baseball. From an early age, Hermes knew he was a diamond. Knew he was born to burn hot and bright like a falling star. He knew about the Victor’s Village, where he was going to live, and that he was large and strong and important. When did he become a tribute? He knows it like he knows the names of his parents. Who can say when you learn that kind of thing?
Anyway. The Career Pack split this morning. Four Girl tried to leave, Two Boy got her from behind, alliance over, everybody knows. So he’s alone, now. Final six. Games almost over. They’ve been dragging on. It’s his fucking birthday. Should be over by now. Time to win. Time to go home. Time to get up and go hunting. But he can’t stop thinking about it, it’s bothering him. When did he know?
He knows why he became a career. For fame, for glory, to bring honor to his district, he said as much on live TV. It was such an easy decision it was barely a choice. But when did he make it?
There’s a fire in the trees, a column of orange smoke, signaling the location of his prey. It’s cold but not that cold. An idiot built that fire. His fist tightens on the grip of his spear. Someone untrained.
He knows how he got here and it wasn’t easy. He has been striving his whole life. It took discipline and sore muscles and inborn grit. The outlier tributes are here without any of that hard work. Stupid, weak, kids who were in the right place at the right time, who had the odds. Hermes, what were his chances? He was born in the greatest district, that was true, to an honorable, beautiful, strong line of people, and he had the birthday - the birthday helped. His first time in the goldfish bowl he was nearly thirteen, and now he’s the oldest tribute in the arena - a grown man fighting boys and girls. And he was fortunate there, he’ll acknowledge his privilege. He was fated for this, born for this.
He approaches the campfire with his blade raised, footsteps disguised, heavy as he is. This will be his fifth kill. Better than expected. Not a world record. Record is ten. He can’t beat that unless he slits his own throat. But five is alright, and better if he brings it up to six or seven. It’s a game of numbers, and he’s strong there. Everything on the sheet says he is worth more than the others: 187 centimeters, 110 kilograms, Score 10, odds 3:1 (at opening trumpet), and 18 now 19 years old.
From the heavens, a silvery parachute winds down toward his head. There’s a yelp from the woods and the firestarter scatters. She knows the parachute was not for her. Rocks slide and branches break as she escapes him. He bites back frustration and thanks the sponsors, open arms outstretched to the sky.
Attached to the parachute strings is a glossy white box, and inside the box is food. No, more than food, it’s cake. A little frosted cylinder crusted with edible glitter, a candle blown out by the wind. The card reads Happy Birthday Hermes, and plays loud music when he opens it.
He snaps it shut, mortified, ears ringing.
In Capitol homes, they are celebrating for him. He knows this like he knows he is a tribute, like he knows his own face in a mirror. Drunken ladies in feather boas are cutting cakes into transparently thin slivers and a pop star is singing the Happy Birthday Song on the radio. Balloons are filled from the nation’s last helium reserves, and decorations are hung up red and gold, his favorite colors, he’d told Caesar that, hadn’t he? I like your hair, Caesar!
To him, they’ve sent a fucking parachute, and scared away his victim.
The Capitolites, well, Hermes would never say this out loud, but they’re morons. He doesn’t hold it against them. Nobody’s ever taught them how to survive, how to kill. They were raised in luxury, planning parties, doing their hair, living like the lapdogs they were born to be. But Hermes has a purpose, too, and now the Capitol idiots have interfered with him. Five more tributes need to die, and then he can go home, he can live, and he can celebrate as many birthdays as he likes.
It’s not as if Career Tributes don’t die in the games. Two people go off from his District each year, and often a Victor comes home, bathed in riches, but there are risks to it, risks he accepts. If he dies young, he does so for the glory of his nation, and he knows his name will be remembered. He wants to live, though. Wants there to be more birthdays. If this is his last, then it’s a lonely and cold one.
Hermes remembers the story of his birth. How his Mamá barely showed a bump. Her eyes crinkle when she recalls working at the factory right up until her due date.
July 21st she clocks out, rides the commuter rail home, reapplies her makeup, drives herself to the hospital, and then neatly begins labor. Hermes is delivered before dawn, huge and red and bawdy, and he screams and takes up space, as if he already knows what’s going to happen.
Some parents cling to their childrens’ wrists and drag them down cringing and weeping. They simper and kiss and rip up the academy forms. Mamá has always supported his big, brave choice.
When did he tell her? He remembers being six years old and beating the snot out of five-year-old classmates with a leafy branch from a tree. “I’m going to fight in the games when I grow up! It’ll be like this!”
She’d smiled without hesitation. “Yes, baby, I know you are.”
In the Arena, he eats the cake quickly, ripping it apart with his hands, and leaves the parachute behind like litter. The other tribute won’t get far. She can outsprint him, but he’ll still be marching after her when she runs out of energy. Hermes jogs the narrow strip of land, keeping icy cliffs to his left, frozen waterfall to his right. It’s a frigid and mountainous arena this year. He’s only ever seen mountains at a distance, so much scenery that divides the Capitol from his home.
There have been arenas where the plants are all poison, where the air is so thin that tributes choke on it. A volcanic plain, bubbling with slow-flowing lava. A forest canopy layered so tall that someone could climb for days and still not see the sun. He’s studied them all. He is prepared. In the moonlight, he sees footprints left by bare feet and the swish of a down-stuffed coat knocking snow off a fir. “Hey!” His voice sounds rusty and broken.
The girl stops running. She turns to face him, legs wobbling, bent down over her knees. “Please…don’t.” She’s from Three, and skinny like a piece of copper wire. Her nose drips, and she’s missing a boot. There’s no light in her eyes, nothing at all behind them. “I can’t…I don’t--”
He raises his spear, and for one crazy moment he considers telling her it’s his birthday. Instead, he jams the weapon into her stomach. She howls in pain, then goes quiet and loses control of her legs, collapsing into a snowbank. She whimpers, “...I don’t want to be here.”
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Hermes has struggled his whole life for this opportunity, only to share it with people who never even tried. He tugs the spear back out of her body. It sounds wet. She moans, and blood gushes from the unplugged wound. She’s taking a long time to die, so he takes out his knife and kneels behind her head. Pulling back her hair, he cuts deeply into her throat. She gurgles and goes limp, and he pushes her off his lap and into the red pool of slush.
The cannon fires. He cleans his knife and hands on her trousers. Her head is nearly severed from her body and her skin is turning gray. Somewhere, some place warm, people are watching this. She has no weapons, but he loots her jacket in case the night gets colder, then leaves her corpse behind for collection. Final five, now. He’s dreamed of this.
He needs to be back by the Cornucopia before the Finale. They’ll fight it out here, by the metal horn, like they always do. The cold river spills out over the mouth, leaving a huge slippery skating rink. The leftover supplies are stuck to the ground. He walks slowly and evenly, trusting his weight to give him traction as long as he keeps his mass centered. The other tributes are still hidden in the woods somewhere. They’ll be back soon. The Mutts will take care of it.
Another thing he’d never admit on television: Muttations give him the creeps. The Hunger Games is supposed to be about finding the greatest specimens of humanity by pitting mankind against itself. GMO creatures have nothing to do with that goal. He’ll go where the show is, where the Capitol wants him, and not wait to be chased out by some pack of giant wolverines. A distant cannon fires, and he flinches.
A girl steps into the clearing. She’s from Two, and her district partner is just behind her, but he looks unsteady on his feet, and she’s bleeding from a gash in her arm. His muscle memory guides him, but this will be a real fight. These kids are Careers, they’re at Academies just like Hermes. And yet somehow he knows that they are different from him. Hermes has given everything to these Games. Since before the Gong, before the Reaping, before the Academy, even.
She pulls back her bow, and he closes the distance before she can let the arrow fly. He puts his spear through her chest with a crunch. It doesn’t immediately stop her, and she releases the bowstring. The shot nicks his arm. She falls to her knees, coughing hard. Pink froth flies through her teeth and onto him. He tries to retrieve his spear but it’s stuck on her ribs. Her partner screams and comes at Hermes with a hammer. He dives out of the way of the blow and finds himself on his back with a furious, murderous tribute on top of him. The girl is trying to escape on all fours.
Hermes and the boy struggle, kicking, rolling, biting. He finally gets on top of the Two and starts punching him in the face until he feels cartilage break and the resistance stops. He climbs off of the unconscious kid and goes to get his spear back.
She’s actually made it really far, which is crazy, because the pole is going all the way through her body and poking out the back, just beneath her shoulderblade. He catches up to her and pins her under his boot, using the leverage to pull the spear back out. As soon as he has it freed, she reaches up and breaks it, and now he’s pissed. The broken wood is still kind of sharp, so he forces it through her skin into her stomach. Then he does it again, and again, until the cannon stops him.
He’s lost his weapon and his arms are tired. The boy is waking up, and he’s a trained killer, even concussed. He stares at the broken body of his district partner. “...You killed her.”
“Yeah?” They’re both careers. They both know how this works.
District Two goes at Hermes with the hammer, again, but he aims low, and the man lets his belly absorb the hit. He bends his attacker’s wrist backward until it snaps, then yanks the weapon away from him as the Two cries out in pain and anguish.
The boy stares up at him, meeting his gaze. His face is red and turning purple. His eyes are bloodshot. “Do it.”
Obviously he’s going to do it.
Hermes slams the hammer down on the top of his head and the boy collapses, limbs jerking and then convulsing into the defensive posture of a dead insect. Hermes hits a few more times to finish the job, until the tribute’s skull has a dent in it and the gamemakers agree he’s not waking up ever again.
Hermes sets down the weapon and sits, examining his own wounds. His arm is bleeding and his stomach is contused and tender. He tears a strip off the dead boy’s shirt and makes a tight bandage. He’s not hurt too badly. Even though there were two of them and one of him, and they all had about the same level of training. Maybe it’s the sponsors, keeping him well-fed, sending cake. Maybe it’s the birthday itself. The perfect goddamn birthday that made him into a perfect, deadly, tribute. Just destined for the games. Chosen by the stars.
When did you decide to go into the Games?
Something in his stomach freezes hard when he realizes.
He wasn’t just born for this. Hermes was conceived for this.
The choice was made for him, before there even was a him.
Made by his mother. Or her boss at the factory, or whoever gave her the idea of changing her situation, of having a victor in the family.
He did not choose to be here. And that means there’s very little difference between him and the reaped girl from Three. Or between him and the final surviving tribute, waiting out there somewhere amidst all that ice.