Chapter Text
The first ray of sunlight pushed its way through the window and made a beeline straight for the boy’s face. The curly-haired head resting against the pillow slowly stirred, his eyes opening as he began to adjust to the pale morning light. Just five more minutes, the boy thought, until the realization struck him. Today, he couldn’t allow himself even those five minutes.
His stomach tightened unpleasantly, so sharply that for a moment he thought he might have to throw up everything that remained from last night’s dinner. But his thoughts quickly steadied him. You’ve been waiting for this day your entire life, he reminded himself. You have to follow in your family’s footsteps. That is your purpose.
The boy got up and walked over to the wardrobe, where he found a freshly washed and neatly pressed set of clothes waiting for him: a crisp white shirt and a pair of linen trousers. He ran his fingers over the smooth fabric and took a deep breath before lifting the clothes from the hanger and changing into them. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror, he already knew how they looked on him. Over the past few weeks, he had worn them so many times that his reflection could hardly show him anything new.
Instead, he turned toward the window. The Fourth District was slowly waking up, even though most people would have preferred to stay home today and erase this day from their calendars. Hypocrites.
The curly-haired boy with striking green eyes had been waiting for this moment ever since he first understood what it meant. He had taken part in countless training sessions and lessons, and had read as many books as his local library would allow. Today, he would volunteer for the Hunger Games, just as his father had once done, and his older brother as well. And of course, he would win. There was no doubt about it.
He turned away from the window, the sunlight now outlining his entire figure and casting a shadow across the opposite wall. His body was athletic, sculpted almost like that of a Greek god. He smirked to himself, realizing that this physique alone would likely secure him at least two or three extra sponsors.
He opened the door to his room and headed toward the kitchen. As the smell of bacon hit him squarely in the nose, he instinctively quickened his pace, rushing down the last few steps in a blur.
“Good morning, everyone,” the boy called out cheerfully, dropping onto the bench beside the large oak table that dominated the entire kitchen with an easy, graceful motion.
“And here is our champion,” his father boomed, glancing up from the newspaper and giving his son an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “How did you sleep, son?” he added before returning his gaze to the printed pages.
“I tried as best as I could, but I could barely fall asleep, I was too excited,” the boy replied, reaching for a piece of fresh bread from the basket placed in the middle of the table.
His mother soon hurried in from the next room, carrying a plate piled high with food, which she set right in front of her youngest son. “Good morning, Lando,” the older woman said with a warm smile, pressing a kiss into his curls. “I can’t believe that today you’ll become a man and how handsome you look,” she added, her voice thick with emotion. For a moment, Lando felt like she was on the verge of tears.
“Thanks, Mom…” the curly-haired boy said, pausing briefly. “I was thinking… since the reaping isn’t until the afternoon, do you think I could go out for a while with Max?” he asked, looking between his parents.
Max Fewtrell, Lando’s best friend ever since they had first learned to walk. His father had won the Hunger Games just one year after Lando’s own father, and since this year’s Games were announced to include only male tributes, the same expectation rested on Max as on Lando: that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. Lando didn’t allow himself to think about the fact that if that truly happened, one of them would have to die. Instead, he focused only on how incredible it would be to have his best friend by his side in the Hunger Games.
“But of course, my dear, just make sure you’re at the square on time.” His mother smiled at him warmly.
His mother smiles at him and gently runs her hand through his hair. He returns the smile and quickly finishes the rest of his breakfast.
In the entryway, he slips on his shoes and, with the words “I love you,” leaves his home, just as he assumes, for the last time in a long while.
Since his father and Max’s father both won the Hunger Games, he and his best friend are practically neighbors; both of their houses stand in the Victor’s Village, perched atop a hill like a majestic crown overlooking the entire Fourth District.
Lando walks along the path toward the house opposite and knocks on the white-painted door, identical to the one on his own home. After a few seconds, he hears movement behind the door, and it opens. His friend’s head appears in the doorway—but the expression on his face is strange, almost frightened. Lando assumes it’s probably because he didn’t get much sleep.
“Hey, want to go out for a bit? Clear your head before the media swarms us and everything,” Lando says casually, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Something flickers across Max’s face, something Lando can’t quite place. Could it be worry? No, that’s ridiculous. The moment vanishes quickly, replaced by the same confident expression his friend always wears.
“Yeah… I’ll just tell my dad real quick,” Max says, disappearing inside for a moment before the door closes and then opens again, and he slips back out.
Lando casually slides his hands into his pockets, and side by side, the two boys set off from the Victor’s Village. Aside from their families, a few others live there as well, but either they don’t have children, or they don’t insist on their children taking part in the Hunger Games.
Their walk through the town is quiet, at least in terms of conversation. All around them, however, there is a steady bustle. People from poorer families are making last-minute efforts to find their children at least acceptable clothing or perhaps some kind of talisman, just in case things don’t go according to plan.
But that won’t happen.
Lando is convinced that today, he and Max will become the Capitol’s favorites.
Gravel crunches beneath their feet, brought in by Peacekeepers to reinforce the ground and create a better visual for the cameras. After another hundred meters or so, both boys instinctively turn onto a worn path leading over a grassy hill.
Out here, away from the buildings, the air feels noticeably cleaner and fresher. A light breeze ruffles their hair, and for the first time, Lando can’t help but realize that this might be the last time he walks this path with his friend. But those thoughts quickly fade the closer they get to the forest.
Unlike other districts, theirs isn’t surrounded by barbed wire or guarded by Peacekeepers, for one simple reason. The lakes, which are essential to the Fourth District, lie deep within the forest.
Lando and Max follow the narrow trail until they reach one of the smaller lakes. This is where Lando’s father taught him how to swim, because in the Fourth District, no child can go without that skill.
Lando knows what an advantage that gives him. From books and past Games, he quickly understood that tributes from other districts often cannot swim, or only very poorly, and if there is water in the arena, he can use that to his advantage.
Together with Max, he sits down in the shade of one of the massive oak trees that stretch out around the lake. Lando drifts off into his thoughts, imagining everything that awaits him.
“I can’t believe that in just a few hours I’ll be standing on that stage, and the whole world will know my name,” Lando says dreamily, glancing at his friend.
“Yeah… crazy,” Max replies, staring down at the ground, his voice sounding far too distant to convince Lando he truly means it.
“Everything okay?” Lando asks, raising an eyebrow as he nudges Max with his shoulder.
Max keeps his gaze fixed on the dirt in front of him, twisting a piece of grass between his fingers, his eyes wide, almost as if he isn’t fully there.
“I…” Max begins, his voice trembling noticeably. Whether from nerves or fear, Lando can’t say for sure, the only thing he knows is that something isn’t right.
“I don’t know if I’m going to volunteer today…” Max blurts out, finally looking at his friend, the person he would trust with his life without hesitation.
His eyes shine with a kind of fear Lando has never seen before. And that’s saying something, considering that in preparation for his success in the Hunger Games, he had willingly watched every previous year, learning from the mistakes of fallen tributes.
“What do you mean you don’t know if you’ll volunteer?” Lando stammers as the words begin to sink in. His confusion is quickly replaced by a deep sense of betrayal, one he simply cannot understand.
“Max, we’ve been preparing for this our whole lives. We were practically destined to become tributes, to defend our honor and now you’re telling me, just a few hours before the reaping, that you’re not going to volunteer? Where’s the guy who could come up with fifty ways to kill someone without getting his hands dirty during class? The one who could even overpower a teacher…?”
Lando stares at his friend in disbelief. The boy sitting beside him now looks small—so small it’s as if he might dissolve into nothing at any moment.
“I don’t know… maybe I just realized I don’t want to die. That it’s not worth the risk,” Max replies. With each word, his confidence grows, rising from where it had nearly frozen just moments ago. His eyes no longer reflect only fear, but also a kind of anger, born from being misunderstood by the person closest to him.
That anger unsettles Lando. He has never seen Max like this before. But he quickly steels himself, on a day this important, there is no time or space for fear.
“Not worth the risk? Max, do you even hear yourself? This isn’t about risk at all… this is about the honor of our families about the honor of the entire district.” Lando speaks quickly, his voice rising with every word.
“And what is your father going to say to that? Do you know what mine would do? My father…”
But Max cuts him off, no longer quiet or afraid like he was just moments ago. He is furious now, seething, every word filled with anger that threatens to spill over.
“Lando, do you seriously not get that I see it differently? That maybe I don’t want to spend my whole life heading toward the Hunger Games? That maybe my parents don’t want that either? You’ve always only talked about yourself, and you never once cared that I have absolutely no desire to get slaughtered in that fucking arena.”
Lando falls silent instantly. He doesn’t know what to say, he’s not even sure if he should say anything at all. A million thoughts race through his mind. Had he really been so selfish that he missed all the signs? Nonsense. If it were truly as Max says, he would have noticed.
After nearly a full minute of silence, the two boys just stare at each other, both unable to speak. Then Max finally breaks it. His voice is much quieter now, weighed down by something Lando can only describe as sorrow.
“Don’t go…” Max says into the stillness, filled only with the rustling of leaves and the chirping of thrushes.
“I’m sorry, what?” Lando asks, clearly caught off guard by those two words.
“Don’t volunteer. I can’t lose my best friend… my brother,” Max mutters. His voice breaks after only a few words, and Lando sees tears in his eyes.
None of it makes sense to him. First Max was angry, and now he’s crying. Lando will come back, with victory, with the glory of the Fourth District. His friend has absolutely no reason to cry.
And yet, Lando places his hand on Max’s shoulder.
“Max… you gave up your opportunity, but you can’t expect me to do the same, you know that. Besides, I will come back, so there’s no reason to look like the world is ending,” Lando says, his voice now calm, offering him one of his familiar smiles.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of…” Max exhales nervously. “If these were normal Hunger Games, I wouldn’t doubt you for even a second. But this year—there’ll be twenty-four boys. It’s just… it’s going to be twice as hard.” He finishes with a sigh, rubbing his eyes as if trying to push the unwanted tears back where they came from.
Lando knows he can’t let anything shake him now, so he simply gives a small, sad shake of his head.
“At least think about it for a moment…” Max starts again, and even though Lando doesn’t want to, one or two unwelcome thoughts still creep into his mind. What if he doesn’t survive after all? What if his parents, Max, everyone, are left devastated? He could stay home instead, safe, with a roof over his head.
Max senses exactly what is going through his best friend’s mind and begins to feed that thought. If there’s even the slightest chance he could convince Lando, he has to try now, while there’s still time.
“Don’t you realize how absurd all of this is? Volunteering for a competition where you’re more likely to die than survive, just to entertain a bunch of rich elites and make the Capitol money off bets. That’s not the life of a hero. That’s the life of a circus animal,” Max says calmly, letting each word settle as he carefully watches Lando’s reaction.
A circus animal? Is that how Max sees him?
Lando is so much more than that, he’s a national hero, part of one of the most celebrated families in all of Panem. And if Lando is a circus animal, then Max is nothing more than a mouse hiding in the corner of the tent.
“Max…” Lando’s rational side finally regains control, pushing all those unwanted thoughts back into the shadows. “I can’t not go. It would be like a bird deciding not to fly, like the sun deciding not to rise tomorrow, it’s simply unthinkable. I have to do this.”
The curly-haired boy stands firm, determination burning in his eyes.
But his best friend’s expression is completely different. The fear has vanished, replaced by disappointment and something deeper, something genuinely sorrowful.
“So this is what my father meant…” Max murmurs quietly, resignation echoing in his voice.
“What do you mean?” Lando asks, curiosity mixed with a trace of unease.
“My father always wanted me to have my own opinion, to make my own decisions. He said that some people let the state’s ideology influence them so much that it eventually melts their brains and they turn into sheep of the system. Don’t you see that this is exactly what’s happening to you, Lando? You’re becoming exactly what the Capitol wants.”
Lando’s face turns to stone. No matter how hard Max might try, he wouldn’t be able to draw a single emotion from him now.
He should respond, but his pride won’t let him.
Max is wrong. That much is clear. Lando has his own mind; he’s no sheep following a crowd.
The green-eyed boy stands up and brushes the dust off his trousers. He has no intention of giving Max another glance, at least not here, in a place that means so much to him.
He turns toward the forest path and, without saying goodbye, because there’s no reason to say goodbye, starts walking back toward the town. The sun is already nearing the peak of its journey, which means the reaping is not far off.
Before turning left onto the forest path, he does glance back after all. Maybe, deep down, he hopes Max will follow him, will call out, apologize.
He knows that won’t happen.
At the edge of the lake, he sees his friend’s silhouette. Max is sitting there, his body rising and falling unevenly, as if he were sobbing.
Lando can’t think about that now.
He lingers for a moment longer, staring in that direction, then forces himself to turn away and continue toward the town.
Outside the forest, it is noticeably warmer. The air feels heavy, thick with dust from the aircraft that brought in the stage and decorations for the reaping.
Lando doesn’t rush. He looks around, trying to memorize every single detail of his home district, while at the same time attempting to calm himself and sort through the storm of thoughts in his head. The conversation with Max has shaken him so much that, right now, he would rather smash something, or punch someone square in the face. But he knows he has to keep himself under control. Causing trouble, especially on the day of the reaping, is possibly the worst combination, and the last thing he needs.
Soon, everything will change. Soon, he will be sitting on the train that will take him to the Capitol, with or without Max.
His stride grows more confident now, quicker as well. Lando realizes there’s no more time to hesitate.
When he reaches the square, a line of boys is already gathered, waiting to be registered into the system. Some of them he recognizes, others not at all. He knows that none of the boys he went to school with will raise their hand today, they all understand far too well that today belongs to Lando.
He takes his place in line. He doesn’t know the boy standing in front of him and he doesn’t need to. He’s one of those who usually don’t survive even the first five minutes in the arena. He’s wearing a yellowed shirt and patched-up trousers.
This boy is from the Seam, the part meant for the poor. He’s slightly taller than Lando, and a few shades paler too, which makes sense; for some reason, there is far less light in the Seam than in the rest of the district. Lando doesn’t know why, and he has no reason to question it.
Still, something about the boy draws his attention. Maybe it’s the firm way he carries himself, or the broader shoulders that stand out against his otherwise frail appearance. And yet… does Lando know him from somewhere? No, that’s nonsense, how would he know a boy from the Seam?
And yet, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the boy’s back, as if trying to memorize every detail, every curve, the place where the fabric stretches tightly across his shoulders, the spot where his hazel-brown hair ends and gives way to pale skin.
Suddenly, the boy steps to the right, and Lando realizes that, while studying him, he had been unconsciously moving forward the entire time. Now he’s standing in front of a Peacekeeper.
“Name?” the Peacekeeper says, clearly irritated that he has to be here at all.
Lando casts one last absent-minded glance in the boy’s direction. How is it possible that he managed to captivate him like that? It must be the nerves and the heavy heat, Lando quickly tells himself before forcing his attention back.
“Uh… Lando Norris,” the curly-haired boy says, focusing fully on the man in front of him.
“Hand, please.” The Peacekeeper gestures monotonously, and Lando offers his hand without hesitation. The man pulls out some kind of device and pricks the tip of Lando’s index finger to draw a drop of blood.
“Press it here,” he instructs indifferently, and Lando obeys once more.
“All set. Next!” the man calls out, and Lando moves off to the right.
Unlike most, who chose to stand as far from the stage as possible, Lando wants to be right at the front—and that’s exactly where he goes.
For a moment, he simply stands there, staring at the stage in front of him. The very stage where, in just a few dozen minutes, he himself will be standing, smiling at the cameras with the expression he has practiced so carefully. A cold shiver runs down his spine. He needs to distract himself until that moment comes.
He glances around and his eyes land on the same boy again.
Now he can see his face, even though the boy’s gaze is fixed on the ground. He can’t be more than a year younger than Lando, certainly not more. He has a smaller nose, and his brows are drawn together, as if he’s deeply focused on something. Lando doesn’t know why, but there’s something about him that fascinates him.
His lips are pressed tightly together, maybe he’s calculating his chances in today’s reaping.
Lando feels like he could watch him forever, but he knows that if the boy noticed, it would only stir an uncomfortable tension between them.
He forces himself to look away. Just a few rows behind him, he spots Max, who should have been standing right here beside him, but clearly chose otherwise. Max is looking at him too, his eyes silently pleading for Lando to reconsider. But that won’t happen and they both know it.
Lando turns his gaze back to the stage just as the anthem of Panem begins to play. He mutters the words quietly to himself, trying at least in some small way to occupy his restless mind.
Right after, the familiar film begins, reminding everyone present why the Hunger Games are necessary and what an honor it is to take part in them. Lando knows it by heart as well, but it gives his thoughts something to cling to, so he doesn’t complain.
And with the final words “May the odds be always in your favor” Mindy steps onto the stage.
She appears to be around thirty, a woman who embodies the voice of the Capitol down to her very last breath. Her skin is pearly white, her head crowned with papaya-orange hair styled into a strange, elaborate creation. She wears a turquoise-and-pink dress with a collar or rather, a ruff and on her feet are heels that must be at least fifteen centimeters high. This, Lando thinks, is exactly what the Capitol would look like if it were a person.
Mindy’s voice is high-pitched, and it takes everyone, including Lando, a moment to get used to it.
“Happy 60th Hunger Games, everyone!” she chirps into the microphone, perhaps with just a bit too much enthusiasm. The audience responds with polite, lukewarm applause.
“First, I would like to introduce this year’s mentor for our two boys… how exciting. Mr. Sebastian Vettel.”
Mindy lets out an excited squeal and begins clapping as Sebastian steps onto the stage. He’s a middle-aged man, his hair slightly thinning, with light facial hair trimmed to perfection. He offers an encouraging smile and waves at the line of boys standing before him, then turns and takes a seat on the chair prepared at the back of the stage.
Lando, of course, knows Sebastian, he had been one of his instructors at the academy, and he’s genuinely glad that he was chosen this year. Sebastian had won one of the most brutal Hunger Games Lando could remember, held entirely on a massive ship in the middle of a sea filled with mutated sharks. Within the first fifteen minutes, nearly half the tributes had been killed, whether by the sharks, the water, or each other. Sebastian etched his name into history with his night hunts, ambushing other tributes from the shadows, most of whom ended up as feed for the mutated sharks below.
“And now it is time…” Mindy continues once Sebastian is seated, “…to discover the names of this year’s all-male tributes.”
With a sweeping motion of her hand, she reveals a large glass sphere filled with slips of paper bearing names. Lando knows his name is somewhere inside, but he also knows it won’t need to be drawn for him to stand beside her on that stage.
“But first, I must ask, do we have any volunteers?”
Lando feels dozens of eyes on him, and for a brief moment, he hesitates. He can’t even explain why. For a fraction of a second, he truly feels like a circus animal and the thought startles him, because along with it, Max’s voice echoes in his mind.
But then he realizes there’s no turning back now, and his hand shoots into the air with lightning speed.
“Ah! Wonderful!” Mindy claps, beaming from ear to ear. “Come join us, boy.”
She gestures for him to step forward, and Lando begins to move. At first, he feels like his legs might give out beneath him, this is really happening, but with each step, he grows steadier. By the final step, he almost leaps onto the stage.
From his chair, Sebastian gives him an encouraging nod, and Lando instinctively returns the gesture.
“Congratulations!” Mindy squeaks, shaking his hand. Lando offers her a brief, polite smile.
“And what is your name?” she asks, extending the microphone toward him.
“Lando Norris,” the boy says into it with a charming smile, his eyes fixed on the camera pointed straight at his face. He gives a quick wink, purely a marketing move, but the sponsors don’t need to know that.
“Another Norris, how wonderful! So, our first tribute is Mr. Lando Norris!” Mindy announces enthusiastically into the microphone, and the audience responds with encouraging applause.
“Do we have any more volunteers?” she asks, following the rehearsed routine once the clapping fades.
Lando quickly finds Max among the boys. Their eyes meet, and Max gives a small shake of his head.
So that’s it. This is final, Max won’t be traveling to the Capitol with him today.
Lando knows he shouldn’t hold it against him, and yet a sharp sting of betrayal pierces through him. After everything they’ve been through together, after all the times they talked about this very moment, Max still chose his own path. For a fleeting second, Lando even begins to wonder whether Max will watch the Games at all.
But he wouldn’t do that… would he?
He has to support him.
And yet… are they even still friends? Or did that bond, once so strong, shatter forever back there by the lake in the middle of the forest?
He looks away, staring straight ahead somewhere between the buildings. The sun shines directly into his eyes, but Lando doesn’t mind. At least now he can blame the moisture gathering there on the light, instead of everything he’s felt over the past few hours.
“It seems we do not…” Mindy’s slightly disappointed voice sounds beside him. “Then it is time to use the bowl of fortune.”
She announces it into the microphone and slowly lowers her right hand into the glass container, shuffling the slips for a moment before pulling out the fateful piece of paper between her fingers.
Lando tries to glance over her shoulder, but the enormous collar blocks his view.
“Our second tribute for the 60th Hunger Games is…” Mindy says theatrically, letting the tension build, palpable with every passing second.
Even Lando feels a flicker of nerves. Whoever stands beside him in the arena, whether ally or obstacle, could change everything. And he knows that more than anyone.
Perhaps that’s why his heart seems to skip a beat when his eyes land on the brown-haired boy from the Seam, and from Mindy’s painted lips comes the name:
“Oscar Piastri.”