The Forgotten Victor
Chapter One
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters except Claire Moore, Logan Smith, and all of the other characters that are not in the Hunger Games, the rest belong to Suzanne Collins.
Rated M because I tend to swear a lot and I am going to put some graphic violence in here. Yeah it's gonna be fun.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm really excited to write this, and I hope that you are all excited to read it. If there's any suggestions that you have for the story I'd love to hear them, because I have even less ideas than I did for the first one. Please review, follow, favorite, and enjoy! And I promise you that my future chapters will be better, I just needed to set things up.
The twisted shrieks of agony and the sickening sound of ripping flesh plague my nightmares. I bolt up, covered in a film of cold sweat, screaming. I press the palms of my hands onto my ears in an attempt to block out the noise that is in my own mind.
Logan bursts into the room and pulls me into his lap.
"It's just a dream, nothing is going to hurt you," he whispers into my ear.
"They've gotten worse! Why the fuck are they getting worst!" I yell.
"Shhh, calm down," Logan says. I continue to cry into his shoulder until I calm down.
It's been about six months since I returned home from the Hunger Games. Six months since I killed four people. Six months since I lost my soul mate. Six months since I began pregnant.
Three months ago my nightmares started calming down, but with the dreaded Victory Tour drawing near they have become worse. The Victory Tour requires us to go around all of the Districts and be cheered on by people that want to kill us.
Today, which is the day before the Victory Tour begins; Logan and I have to meet with the rebels. As it turns out, Logan had joined them while I was away at the Games, and I shortly after I returned. Our meetings have become more and more frequent as of late, which hopefully means we're about to do something huge.
Pulling on our jackets, Logan and I walk out to the abandoned warehouse where most of the meetings are held. We are some of the first people to arrive.
Clutching the mug of tea I brought with me I sit down next to one of the Hunger Games' former victors, Finnick Odair.
"Good morning," he says.
"What's so good about it," I retort.
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he jokes.
"Someone actually woke up to sound of ripping flesh," I correct morbidly.
"I slept well too, thanks for asking," he smirks.
"You're an idiot, you know that?"
"And you're mean in the morning, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and blame it on your pregnancy hormones," Finnick replies.
"I may be pregnant, but I have a knife in my boot and I will stab you with it if you don't shut up," I threaten.
"She does, Finnick, be very careful about what you say next," Logan comments as he joins us.
"I think I'll just stop talking," Finnick concludes.
"Smart choice," I agree. In actuality, I like Finnick. He's one of the only people who can make me laugh, and that says a lot. Since most of the rebels are much older than me, Logan, Finnick, and I tend to talk quite a bit. He tends to bring some much needed happiness to the depressing meetings, and though I'd never admit it, his ideas are quite smart.
After a while the other rebels slowly trickle in until they are all here. The leader of our rebel group, Plutarch Heavensbee, walks of in front of the group and begins speaking, "As you all know the Victory Tour is fast approaching, and that will grant us with many opportunities to increase the fire that is igniting in some of the Districts. Claire, there are two Districts that you need to make sure to pay special attention to, and they are District 8 and District 11."
My throat tightens at the mention of District 11. It was the District where my first love, Thresh, came from.
"These Districts are incredibly close to starting an uprising. I'm sure that all that 11 will need is a mention of Thresh and the baby. To be clear I am not saying that we should exploit your situation or your feelings for the fallen tribute, but it could be incredibly helpful to our cause," Plutarch explains. "Now that that's out of the way, we have two more rebels joining our group today; I would like you all to meet Cinna and Cynthia."
Out of the corner comes my old stylist and friend Cynthia, and Cinna, Katniss' stylist. Once she sees me he quickly makes her way over to us, gives me a quick hug, and sits down. Cinna follows and gives everyone a firm handshake.
It's been a while since I've seen either of them. Cynthia looks like the same young woman I knew before, but Cinna looks much older, like something has been draining his energy.
"You must be Logan," Cynthia says and reaches her hand out to him. "Nice to meet you."
"It's nice to meet you too," he replies. The rest of the meeting we discuss the upcoming Quarter Quell. Since the plans are not one-hundred percent complete the leaders will not disclose them to us yet, but apparently they are getting very close to making them official.
Once the meeting is over all of us slowly trickle out of the building. The sun has just started to rise as we walk back home. Fresh snow lays untouched on the ground. The cold, crisp air bites at my nose, but I didn't mind. I love the way I can see my breath in the wintery air, it makes me feel like all of my troubles were leaving me with the warm air.
We take our time walking back, stopping at a few of the shops buy breakfast. When we arrive at the Victors' Village our care free morning is shattered. Parked outside of our house are three Capitol cars.
For a moment I try to tell myself that it is just my prep team, but I know they aren't due till tomorrow. The only reason the Capitol cars are here is that I am in trouble. I think of running away, they're still waiting for me if I wanted to I could leave right now. But I know that I have to face them. Running away would make me a coward and that's what they want me to be. I will not let them win.
So holding my head high I walk into my house. I expect Capitol officials to slap handcuffs on me or shoot me, but there are no handcuffs or guns. Instead there is something more terrifying, sitting at my kitchen table, is President Snow.