It had been over dinner, something Techno always insists on making. Phil had been flicking through stacks of paper, documents on the runners that had been selected for the reapings in a few weeks time and Techno had snorted at something on one of the pages.

“What is it?” Wilbur questioned. Lazily pushing at the boiled carrots in his bowl.

Wilbur hadn’t expected the runner to volunteer. He’ll admit it, that caught him off guard.

You marched up the rickety structure the pit calls a ‘stage’ and kept your chin up while you did so. You did not cry like many of the others do, but you refuses to look as the ‘very well liked’ boy ,who you’re seemingly willing to die for, is dragged out kicking and screaming.

Wilbur plainly thought the whole thing was a bit dramatic.

Techno apparently disagreed.

“I want them.” His brother told their father in a tone of finality.

Wilbur whipped around to the other with a look of utter confusion. “Want? As in to kill?”

The two of them hadn’t been bothered to join the hunt for a good three years. They had loved the festival growing up, looked forward to it as the highlight of their summer and often played a large role in the events planning.

But at the ripe age of twenty four, it seemed to lack the buzz of excitement that it once emitted in such excess.

Wilbur was bored of crying children, he was bored of killing them too. The fortnight of running and late night stalking at the opportunity of spilling blood just wasn’t appealing anymore.

It wasn’t worth the effort for the script of pleading and cries he was so used to hearing.

However if Techno thought he had found something of worth in the runner on their screen, then he would bite. Willing to follow his brother into the hunt and watch the events unfold.

Technoblade shakes his head, eyes unmoving from the screen. Memorizing the runner.

“No. To keep.”

Another fun thing about these games, if royals wanted a runner to keep and the runner survived or the royals were able to get them out of the Run. They got to keep their runner.