It's Reaping Day and Victor wakes up to Sherlock pounding on his door.
Victor scowls at being woken up so early (he's not the biggest morning person) and actually considers ignoring Sherlock for a few more minutes, but then his mother comes bursting into his room with an exasperated sigh.
"We both knock he'll keep knocking until you answer," She grumbles as she pulls the covers off of him. "Now please invite your boyfriend in,"
Victor groans. "You could have let him in, Mum," but she shut bedroom door and he's pretty sure she didn't hear him at all.
Another knocks sounds and Victor rushes to the door, to a displeased Sherlock. "That took forever,"
Victor smiles sheepishly. "Yeah sorry," He locates a loaf of bread and breaks it in half, holding it out to the older boy. It's hard as hell, but not too old, even by District 12 standards. "You eat?"
Sherlock nods in agreement and Victors eats his meager breakfast, bread and water. He eyes Sherlock's clothes. A well worn out shirt and a cast pair of trousers that once belonged to his brother. "That's what you're wearing? Aren't you suppose to look your best?"
"I am." is the curt reply and Victor stops talking.
He knows the reason why Sherlock's on edge today. Both of them are eighteen, the last year for them to be selected to be Reaped.
Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, was Reaped when Sherlock was eight. He made it four days, then died. Ever since, Sherlock's held a large amount of pent-up anger towards the Games.
Victor's mother is more or less the same. She lost a younger sister, who was fourteen at the time, six days into the game; her head smashed to bits by a rock. His father died when he was eleven, from illness (most like from working in the mines) and with Victor as her only living relatives, he fears for his mother's sanity if he were to be selected.
Finishing his bread and gulping down the rest of his water, Victor goes to put on his best clothes.
They stand in neat little rows, standing by age from youngest (in the front) to oldest (in the back). Girls on the left, boys on the right.
Just as he does every year, Victor prays for no one he knows to be selected (That didn't prevent Mycroft being Reaped, his mind supplies bitterly)
The escort, a lady by the name of Irene Adler, comes to the stage. She's by no means flashy, at least not as much some of the escorts in the other districts, but with the all black she was wearing, it certainly fits.
The perfect outfit when selecting children to be murdered. (Though he'll never say that out loud)
She gives the same boring speech as last year and the year before that. Though this year, she does try to put some excitement in her voice.
Finally, the moment everyone has been dreading, comes up. "Let's start with the ladies, shall we?" She says in that mocking sweet voice.
Her hand digs around dramatically in the bowl for what seems like forever, and finally she pulls out a slip. She clears her throat and calls out.
"Molly Hooper!" Victor's not too familiar with her, though he has seen her around. She's fourteen, small, quiet and skinny with dark brown hair, she walks slowly as the guards escort her to the stage. When Irene congratulates her, she cries.
Undeterred, the woman moves to the next bowl. "And now for the men." Again with the dramatic digging, and the slip of paper comes out. She pauses for effect, then read the name.
"Victor Trevor!"
There's a ringing in his ears, and he can hear his mother let out a loud cry, and Sherlock's looking horrified. For a moment, the teen looks like he wants to say something, but it passes and lets led to the stage by the Peacekeepers.
Irene smiles at them both. "Here's our lucky winners this year!"
Victor wants to vomit.
Five minutes is all he gets with his mother. That doesn't seem like much at all.
She hugs him close.
"I'm sorry for being you into this world," is all she says.
Victor waits for Sherlock to appear. To say goodbye or something.
He doesn't.
Never has he wants Sherlock next to him right now. Sherlock, who probably won't be throwing up into a toilet right now and would be smarting off at every adult in his immediate eyesight.
When he comes out the loo, Molly Hooper is there, giving him a small smile with a glass of water. He uses it to rinse his mouth and gives her a grateful smile.
"It feels like I'm in a nightmare," she says as they wait for their mentors to show up.
Victor makes a noncommittal noise, too nervous to talk.
Victor's mentor is Gregory Lestrade, a man who won the Games when he was sixteen. He looks grizzled and worn-out and Victor wonders if that's a side-effect from having to teach children to kill each other year after year.
There's been no winner from District 12 since Greg himself won almost twenty years ago.
Victor hopes to win this year, but at the same time, he doesn't.
"How did you win?" He asks Greg while they are eating.
Greg gives his a haunted look. "Don't think about them as people, as kids, because that will get you killed fast. Don't ever hesitate because that'll get you killed even faster."
Everything passes in a blur.
Victor remembers training, because that's the only time Greg will actually talk to him; any other time, the mentor ignores him.
He probably realizes that Victor will quickly be dead meat.
Still though, he does his best during the training sessions. He knows all the edible berries and plants and knows which ones will kill you in a matter of minutes.
"You're not that fast, but you're smart and you can think quickly," Greg says and Victor takes that as a compliment; it's the first one he's gotten so far.
When one has a boyfriend that's Sherlock Holmes, you have no choice, least you earn his wrath of being an insufferable idiot.
Victor earns a six after his session with the game makers, Molly earns a four.
"Well, we know who the easy pickings are," drawls a voice and Victor turns to see one of the Career boys, District Two's James Moriarty. He earns a strong nine for his score and he reeks of smugness. The teen next to him, District One's Sebastian, earns an eight.
They look at Molly like a wolf would a lamb, and on instinct, Victor steps in front of her. He doesn't say anything, just stares them down and they leave.
Molly shifts from foot to foot and blushes. "Thanks for that. You didn't have to."
"Try and stick up for yourself. I won't be able to protect you in the arena."
"I have someone waiting for me back home," Victor tries to look embarrassed about it, wringing his hands and blushing. He doesn't pacifically gender, he doesn't need to. None of them will care, not one bit because, in the end all of this is just entertainment to them.
"I want to ask them to marry me when I win. Because I'm going to do just that," The crowd aww's and cheers for him and the minutes he's away from the camera, Victor rolls his eyes about it all.
"I need to win for my dad. He's sick, you see. When I win, I can give him the best medicine there is and get him all better." Victor doesn't know if the tears in her are real or not, but the audience has Molly's sympathy.
"My dad's gonna die," Molly says during dinner that night. "It's terminal; the doctor can do nothing for him."
She gives him a watery smile. "I'm gonna die too. I don't think I'll make it past the first day."
"You're smarter than you give yourself credit for." And it's the truth. Victor knows she's good at tracking animals, knows the human body good enough to wear she could lay a fatal blow if aimed correctly.
The real problem is that she lacks the nerve to hurt, to kill someone. It's a liability that can cost her her life.
The night before the games, Victor's all nerve and fights the urge to scream.
He thinks of home, of Sherlock, anxiously waiting for him to come back and hopes like that he'll live through this.
Or, if he doesn't, for a quick and painless death.