Chapter Text
It’s ten minutes after the reaping when it hits him that no one will say goodbye.
Flash Thompson shouldn’t be surprised, yet he is. Yes, he may have run away from home last night, and yes, he didn’t exactly leave on good terms with his parents, but he assumed they would put that aside to say goodbye to their only child.
He was too naive.
The room inside the courthouse is ominously empty, and the orange leather couch underneath him is too slippery. His brain can't process what the hell just happened. Surely, he's dreaming, right? How can he have been reaped for the Hunger Games when he only had four slips of paper in the whole pool? Just off the top of his head, he can think of five classmates with forty or more entries. One of them should have been picked.
Why him?
Flash is still a bit hungover from all the wine he drank last night—that could be another reason why this hasn't hit him yet—and he’s starving from not having anything to eat since lunchtime yesterday. The lights above him blind his eyes, thus worsening his already throbbing headache, his knees won't stop bouncing, and every time he leans against the back couch cushion, he has to immediately sit up straight, the new wounds on his back still stinging with each slight movement.
Peacekeepers are chatting from the other side of the closed door. Out of boredom, Flash tries to eavesdrop, but he can't focus on anything that's being said. The door to the room next to him opens, and yet more crying is heard coming from his district partner's loved ones. How many visits is that now? Two at least.
Flash still can't believe the luck that is getting Peter Parker for a district partner. The lanky, skinny-as-a-twig dweeb that's afraid of his own shadow is who he'll have to compete with. The only thing “Penis Parker” will bring to the table is getting both of them killed.
Speaking of, the crying from the other boy's room has increased tenfold. A woman's voice is heard, and without a doubt, it's Peter's aunt who's saying goodbye to him now. If she is anything like Aunt Roxie was, she will probably stay for the rest of the hour, until they get on the train to the Capitol.
That makes Flash so angry that he sees red.
He's off the couch and pacing the room. His fingers are trembling, his heart on the verge of beating out of his chest—oh shit, it's happening again.
Flash starts hyperventilating. He can't get a full breath of air, his hands flat against the wall opposite his partner's.
Deep breaths.
One, then another, and another, and another.
He stares intensely at the tiny hairs growing on his tan fingers. Just like what Aunt Roxie taught him for years and years, focus on any object in front of him, and that will get him out of this panic attack before it even starts. He's having a harder time with it this round, however, for obvious reasons.
Peter Parker doesn't have parents, yet people are saying bye to him left and right. Meanwhile, Flash's parents aren’t even bothering to pop in for a minute or two. His friends aren't stopping by either.
That one hurts.
He's known these guys his whole life: Cache, Chord, Indy, Helix...especially Helix.
His best friend, Helix Sullivan, isn't coming to say goodbye. This same kid who let Flash crash at his place last night isn't stopping by for a quick wave.
Crying is still heard from the other side of the wall, and the anger only grows. Honestly, Peter should cry; he has no shot of coming back home, anyway.
Neither does Flash—
No, Flash will come home. He will defy the others' assumptions and come home out of pure spite. He hopes his loved ones feel horrible for leaving him, hopes they will come crawling back to him, begging for his affection and money while on their hands and knees.
A sob escapes the boy, hands still pressed against the wall, now staring at his shiny black shoes; this hangover headache is not helping matters.
It's not fair. He's not supposed to be here.
It's not fair.
His vision is now blurry, and he blinks tears away before they can fall, taking deep breaths until this vulnerability passes. At least his latest panic attack has subsided for the time being.
Flash spends the last 20 or so minutes sitting on the stupidly orange couch, unconsciously listening to the Parkers' periodical cries. There is a pain in his chest, a longing for his own aunt to be by his side and comforting him. He can't put fresh flowers next to the small orange urn in his bedroom that contains his share of her ashes, and he knows damn well his parents won’t bother with it. Maybe Helix can, if he still has a decent bone in his body.
A Peacekeeper then opens the door, giving Flash hope that someone cares enough to visit, but it's just to announce that it's time to go. You know things are bad when the damn Peacekeeper even feels sorry for him.
Flash leaves the room, and more Peacekeepers escort him to the train station that's right outside the Justice Building. Behind him are a sniffling Peter and his hysterically sobbing aunt, the latter's voice slowly fading from earshot.
Outside the courthouse is a narrow concrete path with District Three citizens packed on either side of it. Flash puts on a brave face, like he's in another whipping session with his father, and refuses to let on how much pain he's actually in, emotionally and physically.
His gaze finds Helix's, the tear streaks shiny against his dark skin. He mouths an "I'm sorry", but as far as Flash is concerned, his best friend is dead to him now. An awful girl from his class is obnoxiously sobbing, her arm reaching out to touch him, but Flash recoils before she can make contact. A Peacekeeper’s baton then swats her arm out of the way.
Well, small mercies. At least Chloe never showed up.
Flash keeps searching the crowd, looking out a window once he's in the train car, but it's the same outcome.
His parents didn't show up to wave bye to him.
They've never been there for him anyway, but his dad—the mayor of the whole district—was on stage when he was reaped. Surely, he could spare five minutes away from campaigning to wave to his only kid.
Alas, the train starts moving, and District Three quickly fades from view.
The car is silent. Peter has stopped crying, finally, and is now absentmindedly staring out the window.
Seeing greenery scares Flash to no end. The more green he sees, the less it looks like his urban homeland.
Flash can't sit still, the fear only growing. On top of that, he has to pee again, thanks to anxiety and all that wine from last night still catching up to him. He's shifting in his orange chair once again when he accidentally locks eyes with his new district partner, who’s gripping a necklace like that alone can save him from the arena.
"Whatcha looking at?" Flash snaps.
Peter shrugs and looks away, too timid to engage.
"I said," he continues, raising his voice, "Whatcha looking at?"
Peter doesn't respond, and for some reason, that angers him. Flash gets jittery, letting the emotion envelop him, to the point where he needs to stand up and move around—although that could also be his bladder nagging him.
"Answer me, dickwad," he says.
"I'm not looking at anything," Peter says with a frustrated sigh.
"Yeah, you were."
Flash gets up and sits in another orange chair opposite the fellow teen. He doesn’t know where to go from here—not much to do when trapped in a train car—but he’s got to get this anger out somehow.
Peter also isn’t wearing any orange, which is to be expected. Despite burnt orange being their district’s signature color, it’s an expensive one to buy because it requires existing colors to make it. Therefore, it’s common to see poor families not wearing orange unless it’s their provided factory work shirts. Honestly, Flash is shocked his partner’s shirt is wearing any secondary color, the purple stripes not commonly seen on the lower class. Flash, however, isn’t wearing orange simply out of spite, the events of last night, this morning, and now the reaping not putting him in the brightest of Three’s spirits.
“I’m not looking at anything,” Peter repeats.
“Already plotting to kill me or something?” Flash leans forward, making sure to block the other’s view of the window. "Or do you wanna stare at me while you can before you get beheaded?"
Peter cringes in disgust, putting his necklace behind his shirt. "What makes you think you're the last thing I wanna see before I die? I'd rather jump off the podium too early. I can't even stand looking at you right now."
Ah, he's bringing on the sass today. “Yet, you did,” Flash counters, “Why?”
Peter’s sputtering is nothing short of hilarious. "It's not like I wanted to look at you, it just happened. Not everything's about you, you know, I was just thinking about home."
Flash busts out a laugh, leaning back in his chair and biting the inside of his mouth to fight through the forgotten pain coming from those wounds on his back. Now, he regrets not wearing orange, because he's almost positive that blood has now seeped into his white dress shirt. Maybe the bandages have taken most of the damage. "You're still crying over this bullshit?"
Peter’s eyebrows rise in surprise. "You're not? We have a 92% chance of dying, and you're not sad about it?"
"Why should I be? I already got this thing in the bag."
Flash absolutely does not, but Peter doesn’t know that. Hey, if they’re going to die in a week, might as well have some fun.
His new partner laughs, unexpectedly. "You know damn well we're both fucked, right? Just go ahead and get that through your head—"
“You know my dad—the mayor, by the way—has connections to the Capitol, right?” Flash interjects with a smirk, “You may be fucked, but all I need to do is wait for them to hand it to me.”
Is there a chance of that actually happening, the boy assumes no. But is it too much to ask for his father to try? It’s the least he can do, anyway, now that his son is going to the Capitol with a sore back and an absent goodbye.
Peter rolls his eyes. "What about the Career Pack, huh? The Capitol's just gonna kill them for you?"
“Hey, at least I have a shot at winning, what do you got? Your parents are dead and your family’s so broke you have to share a bed with your aunt—”
“Bed room. We share the bedroom, there's a difference. How do you even know that—?”
“When's the last time you ate, anyway?”
Flash’s stomach growls at his own question, hoping the other teen didn’t hear it. Unfortunately, that jab is a reminder that he hasn’t eaten anything himself since he stole Peter’s lunch at school yesterday. He ran away before dinner was served, and by the time he finished washing up his wounds this morning, there was no time to eat before he had to head to the town square for the reaping.
Nevertheless, he keeps the smirk on his face, keeps that veil drawn like he’s done since he learned to walk. The pissed-off look on Peter’s face is nothing short of satisfying, that distraction keeping his hunger in check for a little while longer.
“If you guys didn't take my lunch and eat it right in front of me yesterday,” Peter snaps, “Then I might actually answer you.”
His stomach then roars like a lion, and Flash can’t help but feel some slight guilt. Peter did eat yesterday, right? Surely, that measly bowl of bland rice and beans wasn’t going to be his only meal that day…right?
Flash didn’t know it at the time, but those rice and beans ended up being his only meal yesterday, thanks to skipping breakfast to avoid his hungover father like the plague. "What are we even waiting on?" he says, changing the subject. His gaze turns to the door to the next train car, his bladder pestering him once again. Seriously, how long have they been waiting here, an hour? And for what? "I have to pee, can we leave yet?"
"Our mentor, I guess," Peter says with a shrug, "Maybe they're prepping."
"For what, our inevitable death?"
"Flash, I thought you got this in the bag—"
The train door opens before the bully can fire a comeback. The boys flinch, and Flash quickly moves to a seat next to Peter before whoever just walked in gets the chance to see blood on his back, if any is there.
Then, his jaw drops to the floor in shock.
Out of the previous District Three victors, their mentor is the Tony Stark. Winner of the 53rd Hunger Games.
Goosebumps form along Flash’s arms, his gaze on the man not faltering. As Tony sits in a chair across from him, the boy can’t help but wonder:
Do you remember me?
Do I want you to remember me?
Being the mayor’s son has its advantages. More money, of course, better clothes, food, and overall household living, but the mayor also talks to people that the average citizen wouldn’t get the chance to, such as victors. One of the earliest memories Flash recalls is when he had to go to work with his dad when he was five years old. Aunt Roxie had an episode where she couldn't get out of bed, so Flash was taken to work to stay out of the way while his mom took care of her. On that particular day, he happened to meet Tony Stark, although he was too young at the time to realize a celebrity was in the room.
Since his win, Tony has been a big advocate of providing the lower class better access to homes and upgrades to the basic essentials like power and indoor plumbing, using his knowledge of the arc reactor he created from bomb scraps in his arena to treat his fatal chest injury. Flash doesn’t remember anything about the visit, of course, but he assumes it had something to do with that. The boy remembers that he was nice and accepted a drawing that Flash made with his father’s pens to keep himself occupied.
Does Tony still have that drawing? Probably not. Tony more than likely doesn’t remember that day at all, which is fine.
That’s not the memory Flash is worried about. No, the memory he’s thinking of…well, let’s hope Tony doesn’t mention it, at least.
Said man looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, as do his tributes. He’s still wearing sunglasses, and he’s massaging his forehead, like he’s nursing a hangover of his own. If he weren’t on his way to the Capitol to fight to the death, Flash would have started laughing at the solidarity. A dim orange hue glows underneath the victor’s white dress shirt and gray vest, his orange tie only partially blocking it. How is he still able to wear the arc reactor after all these years? It looks painful to carry around day after day; surely, he has the money to get it surgically removed.
"You're our mentor?" Flash asks, continuing to gawk at the man. His stomach growls again, and he ignores it. "I must be dreaming."
"Unfortunately, you're not."
"I have so many questions."
Like, do you fucking remember me?
If you do, please don’t say it in front of Peter.
"Not now, you don’t,” Tony says abruptly.
Wait, what? That's one heck of an attitude adjustment.
"What’s that s’posed to mean?" Peter blurts out, anger etched in his tone, "If we're gonna die by the end of the week, why shouldn’t we ask questions?"
The other boy glances at him in surprise. Peter is usually a pretty quiet kid, so seeing him fire back at the man they’ve all admired at one point or another is the last thing he expected. Interesting how moods can change when their lives are on the line, which might explain why their mentor sounds like a jerk right now.
"Who d'ya think you are, kid?" Tony retorts, taking off his sunglasses, fidgeting with a black ring that's resting on his right middle finger, "You think I wanna do this shit? I'm only here 'cuz I drew the short straw again, so if you got a problem with me, go talk to Beetee and Wiress—oh wait, you'll die before you get the chance to meet 'em."
Wow, even their mentor already knows they don’t stand a chance. That’s nice to know.
"Now, look," Tony continues, "I already made a deal with your escort that I'm not gonna drink during this whole ordeal, and if you ask me, I'm already being too generous. Gimme this first day to get over this hangover, and after that, I'm all yours. Capeesh?"
Flash doesn't have time to ask questions, not even just where the nearest bathroom is, because Tony then stands up and exits the train car. As far as Flash is concerned, that was the biggest waste of time.
And he will most certainly be dead by next week.
The thought scares him, like the gravity of the situation is starting to take hold, worsening his aching bladder. His heartbeat throbs in his ears, his knees start bouncing, and his breathing shallows.
"What was that?" Flash says, hoping talking will help keep his composure, "He just came in here to spout some shit and left, what do we do with that?"
"Why're you so nervous?" Peter says mockingly, “You said you got this in the bag—”
"I do, but it can't hurt to get some extra help."
"Admit it, you're scared."
Of course, Flash is scared—what idiot wouldn’t be? It shouldn’t, but again, his partner’s comment enrages him. If Peter is annoying him now, he’ll be insufferable by the time they’re in the arena.
His bladder hits him with another wave, and Flash can’t take it anymore. He has to find a bathroom now, or he’ll be at risk of ruining this chair. Although, the thought of defiling one of the Capitol’s many expensive furniture pieces is quite a hilarious image.
He gets up and once again gets in his classmate’s face, clinging onto the fear Peter is exuding, albeit brief. "Let's get one thing straight, 'Penis Parker'," he says lowly, "I'm gonna win this thing, and I won't hesitate to kill your dumb ass to get it, you got that?"
Peter isn’t scared anymore, to the other’s confusion. If anything, the boy looks bored and unamused. They’re not even at the Capitol yet, and his bully is already losing his touch.
Then, making sure his back is facing away from his partner, Flash exits the train car as well, not caring that he’s leaving his classmate alone, or even if he’s allowed to leave yet. He feels an ominous wetness on his back, and now, he needs the bathroom for two reasons, hurriedly searching for doors, peeking into open rooms, not paying a lick of attention to all the finery the Capitol has to offer.
He turns a corner and spots an Avox, who then leads him to a bathroom in the next car over. Immediately, he’s overcome with the scent of fresh-baked bread and some sort of beef, his stomach blaring, but that excitement doesn’t hold a candle to finally getting the opportunity to relieve himself. It’s by far the cleanest and fanciest half bath he’s ever seen, with the toilet and sink made of pure white marble, the faucet the shiniest silver, and he wants to bathe in the provided rose-scented hand soap.
After he’s done, he takes off his dress shirt and uses the mirror above the sink to inspect the new wounds on his back. Yes, blood did seep through the bandage on a cut that's midway down his back, leaving about an orange-sized blood stain on his shirt. Nothing cold water can’t fix, but the garment takes several minutes to dry, and then there’s the issue of trying to stop the bleeding. He snoops through the cabinet under the sink, thankfully spotting bandages amongst room spray and various feminine hygiene products. Flash takes toilet paper and blots to the best of his ability, with the hope that these Capitol-grade band-aids will do a better job than the ones back home. If anyone notices, he’ll just say it’s his token.
Thanks, Dad, love you too.
Flash puts on his shirt when it’s mostly dry, and he opens the door to leave, only to feel like he just jumped ten feet into the air.
District Three’s escort, Phil Coulson, is standing just on the other side of the door, sporting a grin so wide that Flash gets the overwhelming urge to punch it right off his face. This is the man who pulled his name out of the pool; this is the man who managed to pick one of the boy’s four entries, and he has the audacity to smile at him.
“It’s about time,” Phil says, “You were in there a while.”
“Yeah, that tends to happen when I’m taking a shit.”
The disgusted look on his escort’s face will be the highlight of Flash’s day. “Yes, well,” Phil replies, avoiding his tribute’s gaze, “I was waiting to let you know lunch is ready.”
Just like that, another veil is drawn. Easy-peasy.
Coulson concludes, “Follow me this way.”
Flash’s stomach roars, his hands shaking in anticipation, mouth watering so much that he could drool if he’s not careful. He sits across from Peter, who’s also gawking at the sheer amount of food on the dining table: sandwiches, some sort of beef stew, a tower of the most colorful fruit he’s ever seen, baskets of fresh bread that are still steaming, panna cotta, and a cheesecake with some shiny chocolate sauce over the top.
He digs in, and half of one bread basket is gone in minutes, the last of his hangover finally dissipating. Three sandwiches in, and it doesn’t look like he or Peter have made a dent. For the next several minutes, Flash forgets about last night and this morning, for this feast is too delectable. If this were his last meal, he’d have no complaints.
Coulson is talking the whole time while nibbling on some snacks, but Flash doesn’t bother listening; it’s probably some Capitol garbage like that movie that’s spewed every year right before the names are drawn. His escort’s getup definitely lets him know he’s in the room, though, with his hideous tie-dye suit of about every color of the rainbow, from his neck to his equally colored loafers. And this is even toned down compared to other Capitolites Flash has seen on television during past Games.
"While you're here," Phil says, "You get a taste of Capitol culture. One thing we strive for is enjoying the fruits of our labor, so please be sure not to take any of this for granted."
Flash pretends he didn’t hear that, not having the energy or care to engage. But his partner is, for some reason, firing on all cylinders.
"You mean enjoying the fruits of the Districts' labor," Peter says, with his mouth full of what’s got to be his fourth or fifth ham and cheese sandwich.
“Young man,” Phil replies, “That kind of attitude will not be tolerated—”
"What're you gonna do, kill me?"
Oh my God, you’re already exhausting.
Flash rolls his eyes. "Parker, dude —"
"What kinda work do you actually do?" the other teenager interrupts.
What’s gotten into him? Does Peter already think he doesn’t have a chance, so he’s speaking his mind because he’s got nothing to lose? Not that Flash disagrees with him, but what is his partner expecting to get out of this? Or, is he not thinking that far ahead? Or, is he just not thinking at all?
"I make you look good, that's what I do," Phil snaps at Peter, "Considering I'm personally responsible for getting you sponsors, I'd be nice to me, if I were you."
An unexpected voice cuts in upon entering the dining car. "Coulson, you know damn well you're not the only one who can get sponsors."
The boys turn to see their mentor join them across from Coulson, still clad in sunglasses, so he's still getting over his hangover too. Tony grabs some bread and butter while an Avox pours him a cup of coffee. Flash lights up at the beverage, and quickly requests a cup of his own with cream and sugar.
It tastes like liquified chocolate in the best way possible, the mellow blend miles better than even the most expensive coffee grounds you can buy in Three. How is it possible for coffee to have zero bitter aftertaste?
"You get us sponsors too?" Flash asks while chugging down his coffee, quickly pouring himself a second cup from its pitcher.
"I'm the only one that can approve the sponsors. Mr. ‘Fruits of the Labor’ over there can only entice people to want to sponsor you."
"Still an important job—" Phil says but Tony cuts him off.
"But you're not reaping the fruits of your own people's labor. I don't think there's such a thing there, Philly."
Heh, ‘Philly.’
Now, one and a half cups of coffee, and too many sandwiches in his system to count, Flash can’t eat another bite. Peter has pushed plates off to the side, looking a tad green from all the rich food he inhaled, no doubt matching his partner.
"I’m also here to make sure you present your best selves to the audience," Phil says, "For example: you two acted like complete barbarians with the way you ate just now. For God's sakes, you act like you haven't eaten in a week."
"Peter probably hasn't," Flash quips, seizing the opportunity to wipe the dopey smile off his partner’s face, "Maybe your aunt will finally get enough to eat now that you're gone—"
He cuts himself off with a scream, loud enough that it echoes throughout the room.
‘Penis Parker’ just knocked a bowl of that hot beef stew right into his lap.
Flash continues cursing to hell and back, using his napkin to blot as fast as he can, but his thighs are burning too much for him to think straight.
Coulson at least has the decency to pass him some more napkins. "I don't believe it," he says with a gasp, "This kind of behavior is unacceptable."
"At least you two already know each other," Tony mutters, emitting a defeated sigh, “And you both got spunk…maybe you’re not completely hopeless.”
Did Flash hear that correctly? It’s hard to tell with the third-degree burns that are forming on his thighs—okay, maybe he’s being overdramatic.
Tony Stark thinks they might have a chance? After what he just witnessed? Talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel.
"I'm not working with this fucking asshole," Peter says to their mentor.
Again, with the sass, who the hell is this guy?
“You have to work with that fucking asshole if you want to live,” Tony says, “It’s much easier to track down someone who’s alone than if you’re with your partner. The second someone finds out you two don’t get along, they’ll be on the manhunt looking for both of you.”
Finally, the burning sensation cools down, and Flash can breathe normally again. He’s used most of their supply of napkins, and it still looks like he’s pissed himself, but now that he’s calmer, he’s paying attention to the current conversation. Did Tony Stark just call him an asshole?
So, he doesn’t remember me, then?
Good.
“I don’t care,” Flash retorts, scooting his chair close to the table to hide the stain, “When I get my hands on a weapon, 'Penis Parker's' a goner.”
"Oh, you want a rehash of that kid from Eight, huh?" his mentor retorts.
"What?" both boys say at the same time.
"Don'tcha remember?" At seeing confused looks on both tributes, Tony continues, "About five years ago, District Eight won, but one kid killed his partner right when the hovercraft was coming to fetch them. He wanted the glory all to himself. Know where that kid is now?"
"Where?" Peter says.
"No one knows. Got shunned by his whole district, his own family even turned on him. Some say he ran off to the Capitol and changed his name; others say he was killed by the people in his district." Tony turns to Flash. "Want that to happen to you?"
They lock eyes, and Flash studies him, only barely able to see his mentor’s brown irises through those dark sunglasses. There is some recognition, but that could just be familiarity with the overall Thompson name. Other than that, there’s not much to go on: his stare is hardened, almost devoid of emotion, and nothing about his gaze even suggests they met previously. Maybe it is possible that Tony doesn’t remember him, and honestly, things are better that way. The last thing Flash wants is to relive that embarrassment of a day.
He rolls his eyes, the dirty, gross feeling already taking hold. "Whatever, can I go change clothes?"
“Yeah, that's what I thought,” Tony says, “You're not killing each other, and that's final.”
-
The wounds on Flash’s back still sting under his second shower of the day, but it’s nothing he’s not used to. His thighs are red and slowly turning pinkish, and he’s feeling more energized now that he’s clean.
He’s spent too much time studying all the different buttons and settings to work this showerhead and has quickly figured out that the simple rain drizzle is his favorite one. He uses every scented soap, shampoo, and conditioner that’s available, and sure, that means he now smells like citrus, chocolate, and a nature garden at the same time, but it’s better than smelling like beef stew.
After drying off, he applies more bandages and opens his closet door inside the bedroom he’s staying in for the night, emitting the biggest whine he can muster.
Orange.
So. Much. Orange.
The Capitol knows other colors exist in Three, right? Flash has a whole array of colors in his closet back home, and poor families don’t wear much orange unless it’s to work, so other colors definitely exist.
Capitolites must be a simple people. In their eyes, Three is known for orange and technology, and that is the district's entire personality, apparently.
Flash succumbs to defeat and settles on an orange T-shirt and gray sweatpants. He leaves the car and jumps again at seeing Coulson waiting for him before leading him to a living space, where the four of them then watch the other reapings.
For a moment, Flash is grateful to have Phil Coulson as an escort. At least he just stepped into the clear pool and grabbed the entries normally, but other escorts made a big show about it. Some dive and “swim” into the pool, others toss up entries like confetti, and if any toppled overboard, the nearest kids quickly kicked them out of their escort’s sight. Another escort used entries for magic tricks, where they acted like they were going to grab one but grabbed another instead. Imagine being unlucky enough to be the butt of a magic trick that could lead to your death.
To no one’s surprise, the Career districts of One, Two, and Four all volunteered, with all 24 kids ranging from ages 14 to 18 in total. At least there aren’t any 12-year-olds this year that are marked for death, but most of the outlier districts don’t look promising, Three included.
Flash can’t look away from the television when their own reaping airs. Peter’s name is called first, and he glances at said boy, taking in his skittish stature and the way he can’t sit still. Peter’s name getting called is still a shock; yes, he comes from a poor family and had to take out tesserae, but it was just him and his aunt. He didn’t have that many entries.
Flash remembers what he was thinking as he watched his classmate slowly walk to the stage.
This kid is dead.
Peter Parker is a dead kid walking.
No matter his feelings toward Peter, it’s sad seeing someone you know get picked. It’s sad seeing anyone get picked, of course, but it hits much harder when it’s a kid you’ve known all your life.
Even now, watching this back on the TV, Flash is impressed at how well his classmate fared onstage. His aunt’s cries are heard in the distance, and Flash can still picture Ned’s and MJ’s silent sobs from standing just a few rows behind them.
Then, Coulson’s hand disappears into the pool for the second tribute. Boy or girl, whether they're a 12-year-old fetus or an 18-year-old that just finished school, Peter will have to work with this person if he has an inkling of a shot at winning, as the Games only allow two winners if they come from the same district.
Problem is, with Peter being a dead kid walking, that most likely means his partner will be a dead kid walking too.
“Flash Thompson.”
And the other dead kid walking is me.
The boy will never get those gasps out of his head, especially Helix's, who was standing on his left.
Flash didn’t believe it, at first. He remembers turning to Helix and silently begging for all of this to be a drunken dream, but Coulson’s voice proved otherwise.
“Flash Thompson. Come on, Flash Thompson, get up here.”
It took a Peacekeeper approaching him to finally get him to move. He sees himself from a few hours ago slowly walking to the stage, his jaw agape with terror. Flash remembers hearing whispers as he passed by, most of them of shock, but a fair amount weren’t friendly, either.
“Serves you right.”
“I hope you get what you deserve.”
“Have fun in hell, asshole.”
“Don’t worry, no one will miss you.”
None of what he heard compared to seeing the dumbstruck look on his father’s face from the center of the stage. As Flash walks up the stairs, the mayor stands up, taking a step toward his son, only for a Peacekeeper to back him up using their baton.
Present Flash feels numb. As he’s watching the TV, he’s reliving it. Just hours ago, he was asleep at Helix’s house. Just hours ago, he snuck into his home to get ready for the reaping, and just hours ago, his father, the same man who stood up on stage, was waiting for him with his belt in hand.
He recalls his mother standing in the back and completely stone-faced, and too many kids looked happy to see him up there.
And honestly…
Flash should’ve expected that reaction.
The camera doesn’t capture this, but in his mind, it’s clear as day. Helix then walked toward the stage, his arm starting to rise, but Flash quickly shook his head. No, if Helix volunteered, he would also be a dead kid walking, and his parents can’t afford that. With their morphling addictions, their son helping them hide it is the only reason why they still have their well-paying government jobs.
His best friend stopped at the front, openly crying, but he made no additional effort to volunteer. Flash was relieved that’s soon taken over by utter fear as Coulson made him shake hands with Peter, his official district partner. Seeing himself on television, Flash is surprised at how stoic he looks, while Peter is now about to fall apart at any second.
Peter Parker. The boy who will inevitably get his partner killed.
“Can't believe out of everyone,” Flash says, not looking away from the TV, “I get stuck with you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter turn to him. He’s angry, sporting a hardened expression that his partner isn’t sure he’s seen before.
"Funny," he replies, "I was just thinking the same thing."