A Hunger Games prequel- The First Quarter Quell
Prologue
I was shocked. Stunned. When they had announced the Quell, I had assumed that the twist would be harsher conditions, fewer weapons, or something like that. I had never imagined it would be this.
The capitol audience didn't seem too upset, though. Baque Flickerman smiled happily, and the audience cheered. Here in District 12, however the reaction was quite different. My family stared at the television screen, their mouths hanging open a little. Caesar's words echoed in my ears.
"For the first Quarter Quell, the districts will vote on the two tributes to represent their home."
Chapter One
I smoothed out my cotton dress, trying to stay still while my mother tightened the ribbons in my hair. The Quell had been announced three months ago. The day of the voting, the day of the selection, had arrived. The bell tower struck 10 in the distance. I stood, and took the hand of my little brother, Eran. He would not be in the games for a while now, seeing as he was only two. He gave me the small toy train he'd been playing with and smiled. He could see I was worried and was trying to cheer me up. Smiling, I placed it in my pocket and led Eran outside, my mother following behind, her face pinched and worried. My father would be meeting us in the center of town as soon as he got out of the mines.
We lived near the fence that surrounded the district, and at night one could hear the hum of electricity. However, in this area of the district, life was a supreme low. The roads were made of dirt and gravel, and the houses were slanted and leaned against one another, topped with thin, tin roofs that sometimes collapsed during bad weather. The Hob was nearby, meaning early each morning my family would be woken by merchants bringing their goods to the black market. My mother worked there, selling jewelry made from the bones of mice she finds under the beds and shells of nuts. I, myself, have only been to the Hob a few times, always to bring urgent news to Mother. But each time I bought something small for Eran, who hardly ever gets presents.
By the time we arrived at the square, a large crowd had gathered. I gave Eran's hand to my mother and went to join the other twelve-year-old girls. Everybody would be voting, even small children such as Eran. We were filed into line, going alphabetically by first name. I was near the front, because my name starts with an H. I stood on my toes to try to find my father. I couldn't see him. His shift must have run late, I thought. The girl in front of me, Hannah, entered the small tent that had been set up in the square. After a while she emerged from the other side and joined the small group of girls who had already gone.
"Next."
I stepped forward.
"Name, please?" the peacekeeper said.
"H-Hazel. Hazel Ember.
The peacekeeper checked me off, and I entered the tent. It was about the size of my house, lit by a small lantern. A wooden desk sat in the center, with a pen and slip of paper. It was then I realized I had no idea who to vote for. Not someone my age; that would be cruel. But then again, this game is cruel. There's no other way of saying it.
I finally decided to put down the name of a seventeen-year old boy I knew. He wasn't very nice, but was strong. I exited the tent and joined the group of girls. Hope entered the tent to vote on who would die.
An hour after everyone had voted, Shira Trinket had stepped onto the stage. In her hand was a card. It contained the names of the two who were to die at the hands of another.
She stepped forward to the microphone.
"Welcome to the reading of the card for the first Quarter Quell ever!" she exclaimed happily, clapping her hands together. In the process, she almost dropped the card, and gave a small shriek like the world would end if the card got dirty.
Shira Trinket was your typical capitol resident. Her pale pink hair usually trailed behind her like a cape, but today it was wrapped up on top of her head like a freakish beehive. Her pale green skin complemented her hair in a way that was probably considered beautiful in the Capitol. Here is just looked… wrong.
"Well, I think it's just lovely how you all came here today," she said cheerfully.
I'm thrilled, I thought dryly. Just get to the card so we can move on with our lives already.
"But hey!" she continued, "When it comes to the Games, people show up faster than I can say 'tribute!'" She giggled like an annoying 7 year old. When no one else laughed, she cleared her throat loudly. "Now, let's read this thing, right?"
I stole a quick look around the audience. My father had not yet arrived.
Shira opened the card slowly. She gasped, as if she actually knew the people.
"Our tributes for this year are Rye Harrowson and Hazel Ember."
I knew Rye. He was nice, but two years older than me. And the other one, that was… Hazel. Me.
The edges of my vision turned black. My district had voted. For me. I looked at my friends, who stared at the ground and shuffled their feet. They'd voted for me. I knew it. My own friends had sent me to my death. I clenched my fists in anger, but then unclenched them as a wave of dread washed over me. Hazel Ember, Hazel Ember, voices whispered in my head. You're going to die, Hazel Ember.
I pushed them away and began to walk forward. You're going to die.
As I walked by my friends, none of them met my gaze. None except Ria. She stared at me sadly. When I passed her, she tried to say something, but I turned away, tears of betrayal welling up in my eyes. She reached out to me. I slapped her arm and she drew back sharply. "I hate you," I whispered softly. Tears welled up in her eyes as she rubbed the spot where I had slapped her. The skin was raw and red. I turned away.
The crowd made a path for me, and I walked out into the open. Peacekeepers flanked me instantly, keeping pace with me as I walked towards the stage. I stared straight ahead, gasping for air. Die, die, die, you're going to die. Faces stared at me, ones I knew and loved. Ones that I had once thought loved me back. They had voted. They meant nothing to me now. Hushed whispers were spreading through the crowd like wildfire. A few drunken men paid bets, taking long swigs from their bottles. I kept walking.
I climbed the steps to the stage. Shira gestured madly with her hand, telling me to come over to her. I obliged. Besides her a boy stood, shaking like a leaf. His hair was light brown, and he had startling green eyes. He was a good foot taller than me, and had a thin, lanky shape. His face was covered with freckles. The only thing we had in common was that both of our minds were playing out our deaths.
"Our two tributes, Rye Harrowson and Hazel Ember!" Shira sang. The audience applauded half-heartedly. Then we were ushered inside the justice building by peacekeepers. The doors swung shut behind us, the click of the lock echoing throughout the hall.
