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The bedroom doesn’t feel like his anymore.
It’s that of a much younger child. The boy Max had been before he'd started spending most of his life at the Academy. His childhood sports trophies on the shelves, posters of his favorite Hunger Games victors lining the walls. Brutus’s face stares down at him from above his bed. All Max can think of is the real Brutus - he, like many District Two victors, had come to the Academy to speak and give master classes - and how disappointed in Max he must be.
For the past ten years, Max had only come home for short periods. For his first two years at the Academy, he hadn't been outside its walls at all, had only been permitted brief visits from his family and none from friends. There had just been too much to do - hours of exercise to get into shape, training in hand-to-hand combat and with all sorts of weapons, endless studying of the history of Panem, the Games, the arenas, the Victors and their strategies. After a while, he hadn’t even felt like he missed them anymore. He had new friends now, a whole new world.
If he hadn’t known it before, he’d known when he’d come home after those two years. Everything had felt strange to him, like he was out of place. Everyone had looked at him differently, too, maybe in awe, maybe a bit of fear too. And all he’d wanted to do was to get back to his classes, to his new friends, to preparing to bring glory to District Two and make them all proud.
But after all that, he wouldn't be going to the Games at all. Because on Reaping Day, Cato had shoved the others aside, knocked Max to the ground, and gotten there first.
“I volunteer as tribute!” He’d been the first at the front of the crowd, the first to get the magic words out, and while this was all very unofficial and the Capitol folks who ran the Reapings weren’t technically supposed to know about it, let alone understand it - none of that mattered. It was settled in that moment. Cato was going, and that was that.
Instead of being inside the arena, Max has been watching the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games in his dorm at the Academy, along with some of his classmates who, like him, fell short. He keeps glancing at them, wondering if he’ll see it in their faces, the disappointment, envy, frustration. Wondering if they, like him, have been imagining themselves in Cato’s or Clove’s place.
They’d played drinking games as they watched - taking a drink when a tribute dies, when the Gamemakers set a new obstacle in the tributes’ way, when Flickerman makes yet another eye-rollingly cheesy crack about the odds being or not being in someone’s favor. Strictly speaking, none of them are supposed to have alcohol on Academy grounds, but no one’s ever given a shit. The only times he’s ever heard of a student being punished for drinking, the instructors already had it out for them for some other reason and wanted them gone. And there’s no reason for them to go after Max now, is there? His years of Games eligibility are over. He’s not a student here anymore. As soon as the Games are over, he’ll be leaving either way.
On what ends up being the last night of the Games that year, Max doesn’t want to go to bed. With only three tributes left in the Games, the last thing he wants is to miss the final moments, in which one of them will become the seventy-fourth victor. And yet not much seems to be happening. For some fucking reason, in these crucial moments, the broadcast keeps cutting away from the arena to never-ending commentary about game design and reactions from people in the Capitol. Is Cato not down there, fighting the District Twelve tributes and those dog things right now? Could one of the three not emerge victorious at any moment? Finally, though, he goes off to rest, the others promising him they’ll wake him up if anything actually happens.
He’s startled awake after he’s not sure how long, opening his eyes to see Julia standing over him.
“Cato’s dead.”
“What?” Max says, not sure he's understanding. Why wouldn't they have woken him before now?
“It happened really fast,” Julia explains. “They finally showed the arena again after hours of boring fashion crap, and suddenly the chick from Twelve was shooting him with an arrow.”
Max gets up, muttering to himself under his breath, not sure if he should be madder at the others for not getting him sooner or at himself for going to bed and missing it. He rushes back into the common room to hear the Gamemakers announcing that there will only be one victor, as originally planned. Because of course there will. But judging by the looks on their faces, the Twelves had actually been stupid enough to believe the rules had changed. Just for them. Because they’re just so special. It makes Max want to gag.
But this should at least be fun to watch. He’s still not really sure if the Twelves are actually in love or if it’s just an act they’re putting on for the cameras, but either way, he really wants to see what they do next. He expects whatever it is they have to crumble the moment they realize this really is kill-or-be-killed, just as the Hunger Games have always been.
“Betcha it’ll be the girl,” Max says. There’s definitely a ruthless streak to her, plus the boy’s already injured. “How ‘bout - “
“Shhh!” Gus shushes him. Max is about to open his mouth to say something, when he realizes what’s happening on screen.
Because what he’s seeing couldn’t be further from anything he’d expected. And it doesn’t make any sense. Not with anything he knows about the Games - and he’s been studying them as long as he can remember.
And then there’s backtracking, the sudden, desperate announcement that the Twelves both get to win after all. “That’s bullshit,” Max says, falling back on the couch. He’s not normally one to question the wisdom of the Gamemakers, but he knows it when he sees it. All he can think about is Cato being shot, Clove's body being tossed aside by that District Eleven freak - because they didn’t work so hard for this, didn’t die for this. It’s not fair.
It should have been me, Max thinks. If he'd been the tribute, Loverboy and his bitch of a girlfriend would never have made it this far. He imagines taking a knife to Peeta, impaling Katniss on a spear, wondering how the fuck things got to the point where he knows the names of two District Twelve nobodies.
“Max!” He hears his mother’s voice. “There’s someone at the door for you.”
Something about her tone is odd, and Max has no idea who could be here to see him. None of the others from the Academy said anything about stopping by, and they’re the only friends he has at this point. Still, he figures he should go see what this is about.
The man standing on the doorstep is one Max recognizes - it's Horatius, District Two’s head Peacekeeper.
Even though he knows he has nothing to hide, fear flashes through him - that they’ve come to take him away, maybe for the drinking or some other infraction he hardly remembers - but Horatius makes no move to do any such thing, and after several moments, Max relaxes a bit.
“I see that look on your face,” Horatius says. “Maximus, I didn’t come to punish you. I’m here because we need you.”
“Need me?” Max says. “For what?”
“I believe you’re in need of a job,” Horatius says. “And we’ve got one for you.”
“A job,” Max repeats. “You mean with the Peacekeepers.” Horatius might have said he wasn’t here to punish Max, but the more the man speaks, the more doubtful Max gets. Sure, he knows dealing with petty criminals out in District Ten or wherever is an important job, but - well, after spending all his life dreaming of the glory of the Hunger Games, it’s more than a bit of a let-down.
“I'm sure you saw what happened in the arena,” Horatius says. “The ending of the Games.”
“Yeah.” Thinking about it still pisses Max off. “I can't believe those idiots won. Our people deserved it.”
“Is that all you have to say about it?” Horatius says. “Does it not strike you as more - unusual than that?”
“Well, of course it was,” Max says. “There's never been two victors before. Isn't winning these Games supposed to mean something?”
“It is,” Horatius says. “And it does. Which, at present, is rather unfortunate.” He sighs. “Our two newest victors might not be the idiots you’re making them out to be.”
“You mean they did this on purpose.” He’s starting to understand what Horatius is getting at. “Because everyone was watching.”
“Exactly.” Horatius nods. “And if anything were to happen as a result, we need to be prepared. Something I’m sure you understand the importance of.”
Max nods. Maybe this isn’t such a bad offer after all.
“The skills taught at the Academy would serve you well, if you were to join our ranks,” Horatius goes on. “I’ve been told you’re disciplined, skilled in combat, and unafraid to do what needs to be done. Cato may have beat you out for the Games - but you could be the hero Panem truly needs, Maximus.”
“Told?” For some reason this is what’s sticking in his head.
“By your instructors,” Horatius says. “You should know Brutus recommended you personally.”
Suddenly, nothing else matters. Only the fact that apparently, Max isn’t a disappointment after all. Cato might have volunteered first - but where did that get him? He couldn’t even take out a couple of worthless Twelves, when it came down to it.
But Max has the chance to do it now. He’ll be a hero, like he’s always wanted. And he’ll stop whatever the hell it is those two think they have planned.
“Sounds good,” he says. “When do I start?”