Chapter Text
Chapter One
Mycroft Holmes sat in his best suit, a black tie knotted to his neck, his fingers folded over his knee. Today was a special day, just as it had been since the moment he turned twelve. The Holmes' family was notorious for doing surprisingly well in the Games, both Siger Holmes and Violet Holmes were previous District 1 winners. It was both a scandal and a blessing when the romance of Victor and Mentor Siger and Victor Violet was announced. The second Violet's pregnancy of Mycroft was announced - Panem was watching. The child had to be brilliant; he would do amazingly in the Hunger Games.
But at 17, Mycroft Holmes had yet to participate. His name had never been chosen, and he always volunteered just slowly enough as so that he wasn't the quickest one. But this year Violet insisted - he must compete. His younger brother had been banished to District 3, not abandoning his royal lifestyle, but Violet and Siger virtually forgot about and disowned him. Their only hope to continue their Victor lineage was Mycroft.
He shifted in his seat, moving his fingers to his face to fold them in front his mouth. He had to admit - he missed Sherlock. It was difficult not being able to hear from his younger brother. District 3 and District 1 had little to no overlap, especially with 3 being viewed as 'rebellious' and 1 being the Capitol's golden child. Of course, Mycroft had always kind of expected Sherlock's banishment. Sherlock was a 'wild child,' experimentative and curious and always so loud. When he had blown up the left wing of the factory that he worked in, no one was surprised. When his punishment was being banished to District 3, Mycroft was only surprised that it wasn't District 11 or 12.
"Mycroft, dear, are you quite ready?" Violet Holmes asked as she entered Mycroft's room. Her hair was done up in a loose updo, a black and red dress swishing and swirling around her feet. Mycroft had always liked that dress. It was silky, and he could remember as a child running around and protecting it from Sherlock. Sherlock would rather have used it as a flag for his makeshift pirate ships.
"Yes, mother," Mycroft stood immediately as if on autopilot. He moved as fluidly as the belts at the factory. No, he wasn't actually ready or really even okay. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to fight. All of this was far too over his head. Sherlock would have made a much better Holmes family heir, at least when it came to the Games. He always knew that. But sending Sherlock out there to fight on the Holmes family's behalf was no longer an option. It hadn't been one for far too many years. "How much longer until the Reaping begins?"
"Don't call it that, dear," Violet said, stopping Mycroft just above the top of the staircase. She turned him towards her, straightening his tie. She looked him directly in the eyes and kissed him on the cheek. "That's not it's proper name, Mycroft." She spoke softer now. She knew what was awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs - and if the press were to hear her son talk like a District 12, they would be hounding the Holmes' for weeks.
"Right." Mycroft rolled his eyes, consciously shaking his arms at his sides to loosen them out. He was too tense, too nervous, he was representing District 1 for god's sake! He should be proud. But he couldn't force pride, not even home town pride. "Because 'Lottery' is such a good, accurate name for it. We're so lucky to be chosen, to fight in the name of the Capitol."
"That's right," Violet said with a firm nod. "Now, be a dear and recite that for the cameras and your Sponsors during the Games will be incredibly generous; I guarantee you."
Mycroft held his tongue. He had a lot to say, a lot to complain about, but whether he liked it or not, he was about to go to battle for his District, and he had to be a Victor. That would be his one way of not dying, of going on to survive another day. If he did so, he could come home. Get bathed in the riches that he ex-companions would be making in factories miles away from his new mansion. He could do it. He could manage. He was a Holmes, it was in his genes or something.
Violet gave Mycroft another terse nod, pushing his shoulder gently so that he would face the stairs. She dropped her hands and pinched his palm between her fingers lightly, taking one, long deep breath. That was their signal to descend, descend into the nest of press that no doubt waited for them.
Their shoes clicked hollow as they walked, clicked against pure, white marble. Mycroft took a sneaking glance at the chandelier hanging above them. It was still, it was calm - how did it manage? It had the ability to teeter wildly if it wanted to - why didn't it? But in watching the chandelier, that's when Mycroft caught the first flash of a camera.
"Ms. Violet Holmes! This is one of your son's last - "
"Mycroft, is it true that you've been avoiding volunteering for - "
"What do you think of your brother's banishment, have you been in contact with him?"
In the sea of flashes and battle of questions, that was all that Mycroft heard. Of course they were still asking about Sherlock - as long as he was still gone, they would always ask.
"I still miss my brother," Mycroft said, as him and his mother stopped in the middle of the broad circle of press. "But he was accurately punished for what he had done. He was deserving of it. I haven't heard from him since he was banished, I couldn't have."
The flashes resumed, and Mycroft dulled his ears to the harsh questioning of the reporters. He looked to his mother, who seemed to be perfectly content with answering every question posed to them. Mycroft only wanted to leave. He would rather stand in the pure, clean Lottery Hall then be silently judged on his every move by the press.
"One of the terms for this day being used by the lower Districts is 'Reaping Day,' used to signify their 'Reaping' from their original Districts. Any comments on that?"
Victoria nudged her son. The perfect soundbyte, the perfect quote, and he knew exactly what to say. He cleared his throat, letting the sarcasm drip down so it wouldn't be present in his voice anymore. He couldn't sound sarcastic, not in front of the press.
"I don't believe the lower districts are thinking of this opportunity in the right way," Mycroft started, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Lottery, the correct term, is so much of a better more accurate term. We're so lucky to be chosen, to fight in the name of the Capitol."
With that, Violet squeezed her son's hand, pushing them through the hoard of reporters in order to get to the Lottery Hall on time.