As soon as Steve Rogers hears his name being read out from that slip of paper, he knows he is a dead boy walking.
The entirety of District Twelve knows it, too. He can see it in the tears that slide down the faces of those who know him well, and the stunned pity in the expressions of those who do not. As he slowly walks to the front of the square, towards his death sentence, he catches sight of his friends—Sharon, looking as though she wants to murder someone, and Sam, Sam's actually stepping forward, his mouth opening to speak. He knows what Sam is going to say.
Steve locks gazes with him, frowns, and shakes his head.
For a second, he thinks Sam is really going to do it, to throw his life away in the Hunger Games for him. The thought fills him with so much anger he's not sure what he would do. But Sam finally swallows and backs down, and Steve continues to the podium with a dead, dusty wind blowing into his face.
Gail Richards is the other tribute, a girl whom Steve knows but never became close to. She's done nothing but sob as soon as her name was called, and frankly Steve thinks he should also be crying like a baby at his imminent death; he's just too stunned right now to work up a normal reaction, or any emotion at all.
"Let's give a big round of applause to this year's tributes from District Twelve!" the Capitol woman announces, her voice audibly straining with false cheer. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
There is no applause. There never is. It's ludicrous to pretend that a district would ever be happy about sending two children to their deaths. At that moment, Steve almost feels sorry for her, for the Capitol script that she has to stick to in the face of everyone's obvious distress.
Except he's feeling even more sorry for himself and Gail.
It doesn't really sink in until hours later, after they'd been escorted into the Justice Building and he makes an excuse to go to the bathroom. As he's staring at his skinny reflection in the mirror, it hits him, it really hits him, how nonexistent his chance of emerging from the Hunger Games alive is. How very dead he is.
It's enough to make him want to lie down on the tile floor and never get up again.
When they finally let Sharon and Sam come see him before he leaves, Sharon doesn't say anything at first, just gives him a hug so crushing he actually can't breathe for a few seconds.
"You should've let me volunteer," Sam says, frowning.
Steve shakes his head as Sharon lets go of him. "What, so you can die in the Games instead of me? There's no point."
"Damn reaping," Sharon snaps, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes with the back of her hand. "You were almost home free."
Almost. They are eighteen, after all; if they'd managed to pass this year's reaping, they wouldn't have had to worry about being chosen for the Hunger Games ever again.
Each year, Steve has watched the reaping with dread, with equal fear for both himself and Sharon and Sam. Either of them would've had a better chance at winning the Games than Steve, but that's not saying much when the Career tributes almost always win.
"Maybe I'll get lucky," Steve tries to joke, weakly. "Maybe they'll make it a desert or something this year and everyone will collapse of heat stroke."
The looks on his friends' faces tell him his sense of humor isn't appreciated.
He swallows thickly and puts his hands on their shoulders. "Just, um...don't forget about me, okay?"
"We won't," Sam says, eyes shining with tears.
"Never," Sharon whispers, leaning over to kiss Steve's forehead.
He almost loses it then, as the Peacekeepers escort his friends out. Because they were the ones who looked after him when they were all orphans, even though he was scrawny and sickly and no one believed he'd live past his twelfth birthday; because he almost thought he had something with Sharon, almost thought they could build a life together once the threat of the Hunger Games was past.
None of that matters anymore, because he's already dead.
Both he and Gail are silent on the train to the Capitol. He wishes he could say something to her, something like I'm really sorry we both got chosen for the Hunger Games, but it's hard to speak when his conversation points are limited to that and wow, it really sucks that we're both going to die horribly in a few weeks.
It doesn't help things that Nick Fury, who's supposed to be their mentor, took one look at them, sighed, and told them bluntly that they had no chance of living past an hour once the Games started.
He was being honest. It still doesn't help.
There's only so much time Steve can spend wallowing in self-pity before he feels like he's going to go nuts, so when they arrive in the Capitol, he gladly seizes on the new sights to keep his mind off his impending death. Everything is so big and...shiny. Buildings made of steel and glass shoot toward the clouds as though they're trying to break through the sky, and Steve almost gets a crick in his neck from trying to figure out where they end. The wide, gleaming streets are filled with people, and he studies the Capitol citizens' strange, gaudy-colored hairstyles and fashion. He catches himself thinking that he wished he had his sketchbook so he could copy down the strange sights around him.
Then he starts thinking about how the Capitol has all this while people in District Twelve have to work day in and day out in the mines, until the coal dust has blackened their faces, and come home to run-down, cramped wooden houses, and there's suddenly a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.
The crowd cheers as he and Gail step off the train, as though they're some kind of celebrities instead of kids being sent off to die, and he stares back blankly, feeling detached. It's just all so...unreal. Why are the Capitol people cheering when he's about to die? He is whisked off to the Remake Center, and all he can think is why do tributes have to look their best before they get slaughtered? He listens to his prep team argue over how to "improve" him—a laughably impossible task considering he's been short, sickly, and underfed his entire life.
Somehow he finds himself cleaned up, dressed in a suit that's decorated all over with bits of some stone called obsidian to make it gleam, before he's led down to a chariot in the street. He's barely even noticed the sun set and sky deepen to dusky violet. Gail stands next to him in the chariot in a matching black obsidian-flecked dress. She holds on to his hand in a death grip, and he squeezes back, glad to have one familiar face in this strange crowd.
"The others," she says, nodding at the chariots at front of them as the parade starts to roll out toward the City Circle and President Schmidt's mansion. "They look, uh...nice."
Most of the other tributes' outfits are stunning, made from fabric he's never seen in his life. When he glances up at the screens hung up all around the streets, he sees the camera zoom in on the tributes from District One first, decked from head to toe in shimmering cloth accented with brilliant gems. The cheering of the crowd suddenly spikes, filling the air with wild screams as the camera switches to the tributes from District Two.
Both tributes are wearing outfits sparkling like mica-flecked granite. The girl's hair stands out like a crimson flame against the twilit sky, her face accented with iridescent eyeshadow and scarlet lipstick, unforgettable under the bright lights. The boy isn't as striking at first, but there's something roguishly handsome about his face and the windswept curl of his brown hair. Both are waving at the screaming audience with wide grins; the boy even winks and blows kisses every once in a while.
"Do you know who the tributes from District Two are?" Steve asks Gail.
"James Barnes and Natasha Romanoff," Gail answers. She adds, quietly, "Fury said they're the favorites to win this year, but no one knows who will come out on top."
Steve watches them until the screen switches to the tributes from District Three. The idea that the Career tributes, who are already almost guaranteed to win, seem to be relishing this whole ordeal makes his fingers curl into fists.
He has nowhere near enough arm muscle to use a bow or a sword, and there is clearly no way he's going to learn how to throw a knife in three days. (Not that he doesn't try. One session of throwing knives later, none of his knives have even landed within a foot of the target.)
So Steve sticks to learning how to find shelter, start fires, and identify edible plants. It's not exactly useless information, but one look at the way James and Natasha spar in the training room and their deadly aim with throwing knives and arrows, and Steve knows all the survival skills in the world won't stop him from being a goner if either of them come after him. Just watching them makes him feel depressed, so he tries not to (though he can't help noticing the dirty looks the other Career tributes have been shooting their way, ever since the opening ceremonies.)
When the scores for their training demonstrations come out, he's not at all surprised to see James Barnes and Natasha Romanoff score elevens. Steve himself scores a three, and though it's below the average for non-Career tributes, he's surprised he managed to score any points at all.
After that, Fury coaches them diligently for the interviews, but he also makes it clear that they don't have much chance at winning over sponsors. "Barnes and Romanoff have tied them all up," he says grimly. "You two could deliver the interviews of your lives and still not sway a single sponsor to your side. I'm sorry."
"Do we even have to bother?" Steve points out. "I mean, well…"
"I don't think even having all the sponsors in the Capitol could help us," Gail finishes quietly.
Fury sighs. "Just don't say anything too terrible up there."
Steve is set to go last, so he gets a chance to watch all the other tributes' interviews before him. Natasha Romanoff, dazzling in a sleek gray dress that seems to ripple under the light, enters the stage to warm applause, pausing to flash the audience a coy smile before she sits down.
"If looks could kill, I'm sure you'd slay the competition," Caesar gushes.
Her smile widens. "Oh, I can do much more than look nice."
The crowd goes wild for her when her interview finishes—and it goes equally wild when James Barnes swaggers onto the stage, all cockiness and confidence.
"So James, I hear you're popular in the Capitol these days, especially among the women," Caesar starts off, after James has taken a seat.
James raises an eyebrow. "Only the women?"
Laughter erupts from the audience. James glances at them, a mock scowl on his face.
"I was being completely serious!"
He's got the audience eating out of the palm of his hand, Steve realizes. Every expression, every gesture, every smile has the audience either swooning, laughing, or cheering him on.
"I'm sure you're looking forward to victory in the Games," Caesar prompts.
"Of course," James answers smoothly. "Can't disappoint the fans by having some two-bit tribute beat me, can I?"
The audience bursts into applause, half of them screaming his name. Steve's fingers curl into fists at his side. How could anyone look so smug at the thought of killing the other tributes? It sickens him.
James Barnes leaves the stage with one last wave and a wink as the crowd chants "James! James! James!" The other tributes file past, one by one, until it's District Twelve's turn. Gail is pale and shaking, so Steve reaches over and grips her hand.
"Hey," he says, softly. "Don't worry. You'll be great. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"
She looks at him, wide-eyed, a startled laugh suddenly escaping from her lips at his gallows humor. She squeezes back and gives him a small, nervous smile.
"Thanks," she whispers.
She goes on stage, answers Caesar's questions. And then it's Steve's turn. Wiping his clammy palms against the smooth fabric of his pants, he walks up to the stage, blinking against the sudden glare of the stage lights. When the harsh brightness settles, he realizes just how huge the auditorium is, and how many thousands of pairs of eager eyes are following his every move as he settles gingerly into the seat.
"Steve," Caesar greets him, as warmly as he did for the other tributes. "You might not look like a threat, but I bet you have a plan to win the Games, don't you?"
Steve shrugs and smiles apologetically. "I don't know, I don't think the odds are really in my favor at all."
From the sudden silence in the room, he knows he's definitely killed the mood.
Caesar, though, remains unfailingly cheerful. "I don't think I've ever heard such modesty from a tribute! Come now, Steve, surely you have some special skill that you've saving for the arena? The audience is dying for a clue here."
Steve tries his best not to sound annoyed. "The only 'special skill' I've ever had was attracting bullies from miles away."
The audience laughs, though he has no idea why. He wasn't trying to be funny.
"What?" Caesar squawks, with mock indignation. "There are actually people who would mess up that handsome face of yours?"
"Well, when you're the smallest, scrawniest kid in the district—"
"How did that make you feel?" Caesar interrupts.
Steve blinks. "Uh...bad? Getting punched in the head isn't fun."
The audience's laughter is starting to grate on his nerves.
"I'll bet you'd be glad to show them they messed with the wrong guy, won't you?"
"I don't like bullies," Steve admits, "but—"
"Well there you have it, ladies and gentlemen," Caesar calls, drowning out Steve's voice. "Steve Rogers, the little guy who could from District Twelve! Let's hear it, folks!"
And then the audience is clapping and beaming at him, and he honestly has no idea what just happened. He was only trying to be honest. How did he manage to become "the little guy who could" in the space of a few minutes? How did Caesar get an entire room full of Capitol citizens to applaud someone who was about to die horribly the next day?
He's not sure, but the whole thing makes his head spin and his chest feel tight. It's wrong, and it's not fair.
It's the night before the Games begin, and after lying in his luxurious bed restlessly for an hour, Steve finally decides that it's useless to try to get any sleep.
By this time tomorrow, he will be dead.
The thought hovers over his head like a dark cloud as he takes the glass elevator up to the roof. Somehow, he's not surprised to find Gail also there, sitting with her legs huddled to her chest.
"I guess this is it," she says in a quiet, defeated voice.
"Yeah," Steve says, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
She rubs her face and sniffs a little. "I just...hope it'll be quick," she mutters. "For my family's sake."
The thought of Sharon and Sam watching him as he slowly bleeds to death in the arena makes Steve feel sick.
"It's not fair," he says, through his teeth. "We have to get dressed up and then die because it's the Capitol's idea of fun. Even after—after us, they're just going to keep doing this every year, because no one can stop them."
Gail's eyes widen and she glances around the roof. "I really hope no one heard that."
Steve chuckles hollowly. "I mean, what can the Capitol do? Kill us before the Games start?"
The corner of her mouth ticks upward, just a little. She holds her hand out, and Steve accepts it wordlessly. They sit on the roof, watching over the Capitol's brightly glowing lights in the night.
"Thanks for being here, Steve," Gail murmurs.
"No," he replies, "thank you."
Neither of them say anything, but Steve is glad for her company, and for the warm hand clasped in his. For just one night, it reminds him of home.