Chapter Text
There’s a tear in the palm of his right glove.
It shouldn’t be that much of a problem, or that much of a surprise. The gloves are cheap and old- Kaz bought them used when a recent growth spurt made his old ones too small to wear any longer. They’re honestly too heavy for summer; most people would shove them in a drawer till winter, or pawn them until it gets cold again. A normal person would take them off without thinking about it, maybe make a mental note that they need to be fixed at some point in the future.
Not Kaz, though. Instead, he’s up before the sun on the morning of the Reaping, trying to sew the damn tear closed.
He swears when the needle pokes the skin of his finger for a third time, squinting in the candlelight to try and see his progress. It feels like he’s just making it worse—there’s already a small bloodstain on the inner lining, and the stiches are wide and loose. He should stop. He should sleep. He can’t do either until the damn thing is fixed and his hands won’t stop shaking.
He manages to get the tear closed as the sun is starting to come up. The weak light creeps in through the window of his attic room, normally a sign to get up for the day. On Reaping Day you can sleep in, and many will, but Kaz prefers to stick to his routine. Just because it’s a national holiday doesn’t mean he doesn’t have things to do. He splashes some cold water on his face and brushes his hair back before changing his clothes, putting on his shoes and the repaired gloves, and heading out to get something to eat.
Six is one of the most urban districts, with all the street life and gang activity that comes with it, despite the occasional half-hearted attempt from the Capitol to try and crack down on the criminal activity and corruption. They usually only last about a year until the reformers give up and take the bribes or give up and give into the threats. Kaz spent the first nine years of his life on the outskirts of the District before moving into the city center, but after five years he’s as familiar with its streets as a native. Even on Reaping Day- technically a national holiday- there’s a bustle as people either head back home from a night at a gambling parlor, brothel, or drug den or head out for some breakfast and a cure for their hangover. The familiar rhythm of the street life makes it feel like any other day. Of course for most people the ordinary feeling will fade by lunchtime, as they temporary wooden stage outside the Justice Building is assembled and the camera crews gather. There’s only so long you can pretend.
The part of Six Kaz lives in is hardly prosperous, and most people are content to spend whatever money they make on those simple distractions. They don’t look beyond their next meal or their next paycheck. Life will go on the same way it always has for them, with poverty and surveillance and corruption. They can’t conceive of anything else.
Kaz is different, however. He knows it. He has plans, starting with his current membership in one of the many gangs of District Six. The Dregs are a small gang with only a slice of territory that mainly serves as a buffer zone. Their main focus is on running a small-time gambling hall and smaller cons. Most of the bigger gangs ignore them until they need a boost to their numbers for a fight. But that’s fine. He doesn’t need to start with numbers or resources. He needs to build a gang from the ground up so that they’re loyal to him. The power and numbers will come in time.
Kaz buys some fried bread and jam for breakfast from a street vendor, then walks further into the city center towards the train depots as he eats. Even on Reaping Day, the biggest holiday in Panem, the trains are still running. The Capitol can’t be deprived of their luxuries for even one day, apparently. Electronics, seafood, fancy fabrics. Tributes.
With Six being the transportation district, goods come through from all over the nation- fabrics from Eight, coffee and produce from Eleven, even electronics from Three and jewelry from One. Smuggling them off Capitol trains and into the black market is a good business, one Kaz is working his way into. If the Dregs can corner the market on something, even coal from Twelve, their profile as a gang could skyrocket. The problem is getting the funds to bribe the smugglers for their entire stash of something. Taking an entire trainload is a good way to wind up hanged for stealing, but the Peacekeepers that guard the trains here turn a blind eye when small amounts go missing—bribe money is helpful that way.
“Morning, Kaz.” Holst, the manager of the depot, waves at him once Kaz enters the station. “You’re up early.”
“I’m buying coffee.” He shoves his gloved hands in his pockets. “You have my order?”
“Of course.” Holst glances around the mostly empty depot and then hands him a medium-sized canvas bag. Kaz opens it enough to smell the coffee beans. “45.”
“That’s five more than last month.” Kaz digs in his pocket for his money with his free hand. He has the 45, but not on him, and it’s all his savings from the last two weeks. He isn’t going to let an idiotic bastard like Holst take it. “Has the coffee gotten better?”
Holst shrugs. “Don’t drink the stuff.”
“If it’s the same amount, and it hasn’t gotten any better, why am I paying more money?”
“Look, times are tough-“
“Spare me.” Kaz rolls his eyes. “You’re raising the price because you can.”
“If you don’t want to pay, I’ve got plenty of other clients.” Holst lights a homemade cigarette and leans back on his heels.
“Plenty of other clients who’ll tell your wife about your girl on the north side?” Kaz raises on eyebrow, smirking slightly at Holst’s gape of shock.
“How do you-“
“I know everything.” He isn’t going to warn him off of leaving his letters lying around in his office at the depot. There might be more useful information in there. “So, how does 30 sound?”
Kaz walks back home to the Dregs’ headquarters, carrying his coffee with a triumphant smirk. He sets it up to brew and sits down at the battered wooden table in the shared kitchen with his own cup. Getting up early and arguing with Holst is worth it when members of the Dregs stumble in and gulp the coffee down gratefully. They know who gets it for them, and the gratitude will extend to other things, even if they don’t know it consciously.
Judging by the state of his fellow gang members as they start to emerge, half the District is going to be hungover at the Reaping today. The other half will probably be high. Typical for a special occasion in Six. He shakes his head.
“Are you nervous?” Anika, one of the newer members of the Dregs, sits beside him with a cup of coffee. He can tell from her chewed nails that she is. She wants reassurance.
“No.” He sips his own drink casually.
Her face falls, but Kaz isn’t interested in comforting her. He pushes away from the table and refills his coffee before going back upstairs. If the new recruits want handholding, they can go join another gang. He’s going to give them opportunities, not baby them.
The one slightly profitable enterprise the Dregs have is their gambling parlor, the Crow Club, so Kaz spends his morning balancing the books. His natural grasp of math meant that the gang leadership had been happy to delegate the job to him, even if they occasionally look his work over to make sure he isn’t stealing. Not that he would—running the books is yet another way to make himself indispensable. Passing up on that for cheap profit would be stupid and short-sighted, two things Kaz prides himself on not being.
It’s a good way to kill a few hours with something besides worry, though, until the clock in the central square marks the hour. Kaz takes a breath and adjusts his gloves before heading out with the rest of the Dregs. Six is one of the largest districts, with a population in the hundreds of thousands radiating out from the city center. They do pre-Reapings to determine which area the tributes will come from and then direct them to come into town, but the population of the city center always has to show up on camera, even if it’s not their year to actually provide the contestants. They never know if it is. The pre-Reapings are so highly confidential that no District person has ever actually been present. What they know about how they work has only been pieced together through stories from drunken peacekeepers and years of observation.
The others joke and shove each other nervously as they walk to the main square but Kaz keeps a step apart from the rest of the recruits his age. He doesn’t fear the Reaping, not really. Maybe in the abstract. It’s a constant, ever-present danger, but not one that much can be done about. The Hunger Games kill less people than starvation or disease in Six every year. His own name is only in three times. They’re mainly just an inconvenience, putting everything on hold for two weeks in the summer while the Capitol makes sure no one forgets who’s in charge. It’s good for business in the Crow Club, at least. People come to bet on the Games or drink the pain away. It’s the most profitable two weeks they’ll see all year.
The check-in line is backed up, of course. They’re running late, along with half of the other gangs on the west side. The Capitol tech looks bored as she pricks fingers and smears blood on her scanner to confirm their identities. Kaz wonders what she did to get stuck working District Six as the line creeps forward.
When there’s only one person ahead of him in line and he can’t delay it any longer, Kaz takes a deep breath and pulls off his right glove. Pim steps aside, sticking his finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding, and Kaz holds out his hand. The prick of the needle on the tip of his index finger isn’t enough of a distraction from the clammy feeling of the tech’s fingers on the back of his hand, lifting it into the correct position. He swallows, forcing his breakfast to stay down. As soon as she’s done Kaz pulls his hand back and shoves his glove back on. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking that’s come again.
“You coming?” Anika calls, brows furrowed in concern. Any other day of the year, Kaz would scoff at her worry. With his hands still shaking, however, he just nods and follows her and Pim to their places.
His eyes go to the front of the crowd, where the older teenagers stand, focusing on the 18-year-olds. They’re the quietest group, torn between fear at having the greatest number of slips and the giddy relief at this being their last year. For a moment his gaze lingers on a tall boy with dark hair—who, he isn’t sure—and he lets himself pretend. It’s stupid and sentimental, and when that becomes too much, he forces himself to look to the sides, where the adults of the District are. A few hold betting slips—putting money on things like the age of the Tributes, whether or not they’ll cry, how much tesserae they took out. It’s a decent moneymaker, even if it only comes around once a year, but the Dime Lions have the market cornered.
Speaking of the Dime Lions, their leader appears on the Reaping stage, shaking hands with the new Capitol escort. Mayor Pekka Rollins. Kaz clenches his fists. Pekka has his fingers in everything in Six, from the morphling dens to the squalid housing of the city center. Being the leader of the District’s strongest gang as well as the mayor has made him untouchable and almost as rich as a Capitol citizen.
Brick by brick, Kaz reminds himself. He tries to tell himself that Pekka should enjoy his wealth and influence while he has it, that it’s all going to come down around him soon enough. It’s hard to remember that when he smirks out at the crowd, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair casually. He checks the time on his expensive pocket watch even though he’s sitting across from the clock tower, easily able to read it. If the Capitol escort wasn’t the one who actually drew the names, Kaz wouldn’t put it past him to have rigged the Reaping to help the bottom line on his bets. It’s just the kind of despicable, disregarding of human life thing he loves. Though Pekka isn’t dumb enough to fuck with the Capitol like that. The only reason the gangs of Six have been allowed to go on the way that they have for so long is that they don’t substantially interfere with the two things the Capitol cares about—the flow of the trains and the Hunger Games. Breaking that fragile truce would bring a crackdown only comparable to the Dark Days, which both Pekka and Kaz have no interest in.
His thoughts are interrupted when the new escort taps on the microphone, making feedback echo through the square. Anika makes a face and Pim covers his ears. The hungover half of the District looks like they’re regretting having gotten out of bed. A bullet in the head for missing the Reaping might be preferable to the sunlight and the shrill voice of their new escort. He’d half believe they train them all at some Capitol school to be perfectly perky, annoying, and clueless. It’s the only explanation.
“Good morning, everyone!” She looks out at the crowd expectantly, like they’re kindergarteners. The hum of the trains above fills in what would be an otherwise awkward silence. She blinks, her large dark eyelashes and eerily blue eyes making her look like an expensive doll. “I said good morning, everyone!”
Pim snorts with laughter and Anika is shaking with silent giggles. Kaz smirks. The laughter spreads through the crowd; even Pekka chuckles darkly. The escort’s face falls. Kaz gives it about two years before she quits and starts teaching toddlers. It seems like it might be a better career for her.
“It’s wonderful to be here today!” She recovers pretty well, all things considered. “My name is Pomponia Silvertree, and I’m thrilled to be the new Hunger Games escort for District Six!” She pauses and stares out at the crowd expectantly again. After a moment a few people around the edges of the crowd clap half-heartedly to move her speech along, and she seems satisfied by that.
“I know this is an exciting time of year for all of you, and I’m so happy to be a part of it!” She doesn’t wait for an acknowledgement from the crowd before moving on this time. “And now, Mayor Rollins will begin by reading the Treaty of Treason.” Rollins steps up to the microphone with his notecards and Kaz immediately tunes him out. Pekka’s insufferable enough when he’s silent, hearing him talk just makes Kaz want to carve his eyeballs out with a rusty spoon.
“I give it a year before the new one quits.” Pim hooks his thumbs through the belt loops and rocks back and forth on his heels.
“Two,” Kaz says. “They never quit after one year. But will she start teaching preschool or snap and become an axe murderer?”
“Axe murderer.” Anika fans her round face with her hand. “We could use some excitement around here.”
Kaz snorts, rearranging his face just in time for Rollins to finish reading the treaty and introduce their Victors. They’re not exactly an inspiring bunch; Genna is so high that she probably doesn’t know where she is and Haskell, who has to be well into his fifties by now, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Though they’ve got one sober Victor, so they’re ahead of District 12. Barely.
Pomponia steps forward again once Rollins sits back down, the idiotic grin plastered on her face. The two glass bowls full on names are placed on the table in front of the microphone by a Peacekeeper in a dress uniform, who rests one hand on the butt of his rifle instinctively. A good habit for law enforcement in Six.
“And now let’s begin the Reaping for the 71st Annual Hunger Games!” She reaches into the bowl to her left and draws out a slip of paper. The crowd holds its breath and Rollins leans forward. “Our lucky female tribute will be Miss Imogen Visser!”
Imogen steps out from the fifteen-year-old section just ahead of them. The angle means Kaz can’t see her expression without glancing up at the screen, which he does out of the corner of his eye. Her face is blank, but her eyes are wide with shock and fear. She isn’t showing obvious weakness, but anyone who knows how to look will see it. He’s seen her around before, but she’s not a member of the Dregs. She probably runs with one of the other medium-sized gangs—the Blacktips or the Razorgulls. A woman in the crowd gives a low moan of despair. She has the same blonde hair and slender build as Imogen—probably a mother or aunt.
A few people on the edge of the crowd exchange money as she walks to the stage. Rollins leans back in his seat, obviously pleased with the outcome. Once Imogen climbs the stairs, she’s directed to stand awkwardly next to Pomponia, who reaches into the bowl on her right. Kaz can sense Pim holding his breath next to him, bravado gone as Pomponia slowly unfolds the slip of paper with the name of the male tribute on it. The entire crowd around him seems to be pleading silently: not me, not me, not me.
“And joining Miss Visser, our lucky male tribute is-“ she glances down quickly to make sure she has the name correct “-Mr. Kaz Brekker!”
For a moment he thinks that he’s misheard her. That it can’t be right. That he must have imagined it, the way he had nightmares about his name or Jordie’s being called back when he was young. In a moment the real Tribute will step out of the crowd and walk up the stage to certain death, and he can go back to his life, back to doing the books and threatening smugglers and recruiting new members who will be loyal to him and keeping track of Pekka Rollin’s every move-
No one moves.
“Kaz Brekker?” Pomponia repeats, glancing out into the crowd with her perfect dark eyebrows furrowed. “Is Kaz Brekker here?”
“Kaz-“ Anika says, voice full of pity, and he knows it’s real.
The moment it takes him to fight his way out of the crowd and to the pathway to the stage gives him enough time to force himself to appear calm. He squares his shoulders and glares at one camera as he climbs the stairs to the stage, standing on the other side of Pomponia from Imogen. No fear. No weakness. The other Tributes and the Capitol will watch the recaps, and he can’t make himself a target, not when he’s going to be one of the youngest there.
Pomponia gestures for the crowd to applaud and a few of them do—the adults holding the betting slips mostly. Some of them are already looking around to collect their winnings. One or two of them probably bet on him.
“Shake hands, Tributes!” Pomponia says, stepping back to allow them to reach each other. Imogen holds out her hand robotically, and Kaz, on autopilot, takes it.
The first touch of her skin through the tear in his glove, which had managed to reopen itself sometime earlier today, is so subtle he almost doesn’t notice it. But as she clasps his hand tighter—looking for a sign of weakness or a show of solidarity, maybe both—it grows clammy and cold, corpselike. It takes all of his strength not to be sick on the stage.
“Happy Hunger Games, Tributes.” Pomponia’s voice, welcome for probably the only time in his life, is the cue to let go of her hand, which Kaz does as quickly as he can. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”