Chapter 1

No sunlight or crisp morning air greeted me today as I rose out of bed. I had drawn the dusty curtains across the window the night before so I could sleep in (if 7:00 AM can be considered sleeping in). I decided there would be no training or running for me today so I needn't bother waking up early. Stretching my sore muscles, I stiffly made my way over to the window to see what kind of weather I'd have to bear with on this special day of the reaping.

I opened the window so as to receive the morning's delayed greeting. A fresh breeze brought in the smell of grass and coal dust (what else is new in District 12?). The smell caused my body to start waking up and a deep grumble in my stomach told me to go find something to scavenge. It could be the last meal I have in this house. At the age of seventeen my chances of getting picked are much higher than many of my peers'. However my chances of survival are also much higher than the rest of them too. I looked in the mirror and examined my lean and toned 5' 9" frame. Wirey would be a better term for it actually. The lack of nutrition makes it hard to build muscle. If only there were more food I could be so much stronger. Just what the Capitol doesn't want.

I looked back out the window again only to see a dark figure dart towards the direction of the field at the edge of town. Katniss. Of course she would hunt no matter what day it is. I smiled at her. She is a slight outcast at my school and not because we caused it. I say we because sometimes this is the case for other kids. No, the difference between her and the other outcasts is that she wants to be left alone. Before the mining accident when I was young I used to see her on the playground and even though I was a year ahead of her we would still play games together every now and then. Once her father died she became completely independent. Well not entirely, the only other people she really lets into her life are her hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne (a boy that's a year ahead of me at school), and her little sister, Prim. She's nice to Madge (the mayor's daughter) and although I try, she does not seem too interested in me. Maybe she's the only one who's clever enough to realize it's all an act? Or most likely she just doesn't care.

The smell of toast caught ahold of my nostrils and led me downstairs to the little kitchen. There I found Pop setting slices with melted cheese onto three plates while my little four year old brother sat at our tiny square kitchen table, swinging his feet back and forth in anticipation. Both toast and cheese are rarities in this household. We used to have a goat but she died of old age. Chickens were also kept, and although they were fine in the summer due to the great availability of bugs and some grain, we found that it was increasingly difficult to take care of them in the cold winters because food is so scarce.

I remember Pop creating a set of fine knives; bread knives. He must have given them to the baker in exchange for a loaf or so of bread. He was well known for his craftsmanship in woodworking, metal working, or really anything of that nature. That's how we could trade around here in the Seam, through his skills. I've picked up some of them but experience has given him the better style.

Pop was a large man of 6' 3" and although he was of poor class he was not to be disrespected. Like almost everyone else in the Seam he had the classic grey eyes and dark brown almost soot colored hair. He was approaching forty but he still had the physique of a thirty year old despite his leg. In the mining accident he lost more than his leg; he lost his friends (one of them was Katniss's father). Many men were stuck under layers of rubble. He dug through much of it pulling out body after body, some breathing and some not. After hours of digging he moved some rubble the wrong way and as he crawled to help an older man out, a beam came down on his leg. Had it been moved right away the situation may have turned out differently, but he was down there for hours after and it was too late. It had to be amputated. But like I said he is a clever man and so he created for himself a type of mechanical leg he managed to scrap together using metal and screws. It's not perfect but it's better than relying on a pair of crutches. He can still go to work in the mines for his family. So to everyone else he's known as "Dana Perkins, the man who would give a leg for his fellow miners".

"Mornin'," I mumbled as I made my way over to the table. Saying "Good Morning" didn't quite fit the mood for today of all days. I kissed Robbie's head and tousled his soft brown hair. He looked up with his wide catlike green eyes and stared into mine. He gave me a small weak smile that revealed a couple of his missing baby teeth and then turned his concentration back to Pop who was now pouring water into three glasses.

Robbie and I share the same eyes and hair color. We were certainly are a mixture of our parents (although there are books that say that's not exactly how it works). Our Mother had strawberry blonde hair, fair freckled skin, and eyes so green that emeralds seemed worthless in comparison. We on the other hand are brunettes like our father. The difference is when I was about ten, bits of red started showing up and as I age it's becoming more prominent and I expect the same will happen to Robbie. Our eyes too are a mixture, and shift from shades of green to silver depending on our mood or health. My skin is sun-kissed and clear like my father's, with a few marks here and there, Robbie inherited mother's fair complexion with freckles that's prone to sunburn. Needless to say we look like each other but not really similar to the other blonde or dark brown/ black haired kids in the district.

Pop plopped a plate in front of me as I sat down and I could sense his tension by his rough handling of it.

"Tell me, Emera, is there a valid reason that justifies your absence at training this morning?" He asked.

"No. I only figured that I would try to enjoy last night's sleep as best as I could because after today things may be different," I explained knowing that he wouldn't accept it as a valid excuse.

"Did it ever cross your mind if you had woken up early to train this morning, like your brother did, that if things are to be different you'd be better off facing the challenges the future brought you?" he questioned.

I decided not to answer him and instead sat quietly like my brother; my brother who cannot talk. I wish I were him right now.

Robbie's birth was a miracle and a curse all at the same time. For years I remember Mother and Pop trying to have a child. They had a plan for their children to be part of a new generation and hopes that things would change and be better for us. They were wrong, of course, but that is beside the point. There were complications; many miscarriages. I remember the first time; there was a lot of blood. I came home from school to find my mother weeping in a pool of it on the bathroom floor, her clothes were stained and she was shaking. She saw me and cleaned herself up and then hugged me like I'd never been hugged before. When Pop came home he held her and me, he didn't cry though. That's how we stayed all night. I was very young, about Robbie's age now.

Years later when Robbie was born Mother had fallen ill.

"Caron!" My father screamed as she was delivering the baby and trying to stay conscious too, "Caron stay with me! Stay with me!"

Katniss's mother was there as well, trying to help us as best as she could but it was too late. Mother was awake long enough to see Robbie but after that she collapsed and would not wake up. Robbie didn't cry at all when he came out of the womb. It wasn't natural; he just stared at us in wonder, not knowing that his mother just died. In all of the hustle he was thrust upon me while they tried to recover mother. I kept him warm in a yellow blanket and I paced in a room outside back and forth. I started to feel violence swell up in me. It was dark and firm like a bruised knee. I wanted him gone; I wanted him dead, I was angry that he had killed Mother.

I felt my arms tense up as I was holding the sleeping baby. My face had scrunched up and I could feel it getting hot. Tears welled up in my eyes and I could no longer hold them. They ran down my face and off of my chin. One landed on his forehead and he looked up at me with the biggest eyes I had ever seen. They were so green at that moment. They were just like hers and suddenly I felt shame wash over me. Mother wanted this baby to be here even if meant giving away her life. His life was her last wish and so I had to watch over him.

Pop came out. I'd never seen him cry before, not even when he pulled his friends' bodies out of the explosion the previous year. It was unsettling. I remember trying to study his face, I was scared he would feel the way I had at first and I believe he did for a split second. Something flashed across his face. He stood up straight and clenched his fists aggressively. I held Robbie in a protective way and stared right back. And then it all happened so fast; Pop flew down upon me and I tucked the baby into me and braced myself. But Pop was holding me, he wasn't going to hurt us, it was fear that I saw in his face. I felt him heave and wail in agony; he was upset he couldn't save Mother and he was afraid for this new baby.

As the weeks passed more problems arose with Robbie. His breathing was off and Katniss's mother said he had a disease called asthma. If we lived in the Capitol Robbie would have been able to get steroids and an inhaler, but living in the Seam is quite different. It's not uncommon that kids should have breathing difficulties because of the coal dust, but if an attack is serious enough it could kill a child. There were nights when Pop would hold Robbie and calmly tell him to breathe in and out. There wasn't much we could do. I remember seeing the determination in his face; he was going to give his son a fighting chance. He would train his son from a young age and strengthen the boy's lungs. Robbie would not die on his watch.

The only mystery that's never been explained is why he is so averse to speaking. He can hear fine and he has a voice (I've heard him laugh before; it's a rich laugh that warms me to my bones). Instead he came up with his own way of talking through body motions. I can understand him pretty well but Pop doesn't pick everything up and I think that's what upsets him the most. It certainly makes connecting with his son that much more difficult.

I looked over at the little boy. He stared at me and cupped his wrist in his right hand and twisted his left arm twice, "Awkward" he said, or "Uncomfortable". He didn't like being dragged into Pop's and my discussion.

Pop caught the sign, "I'm sorry Robbie, that was wrong of me. I just need you two to realize how important it is to understand everything you can about yourself. If you do not see your weaknesses and strengths other people will and they will use that to their own advantage," His silver eyes pierced me, "And I'm not just talking about people in the Games."

"Continuous effort- not strength or intelligence- is the key to unlocking our potential," He finished. We all nodded in understanding. "Winston Churchill said that".

Pop was always quoting literature and people of the past. He drills us on them. We read books of the past, it's one of the things Pop trades for the most. Some books have been passed down from generation to generation. Some have huge secrets in them, like our training methods or even books about a higher being. These were the ones the Capitol band. Years ago they were all burned. Few survived but somewhere along the line the people of my family passed them down knowing the power they possessed and that's the last thing the Capitol would want in the hands of the people.

"How's the toast Robbie?" I asked looking over at my brother who was now bouncing in his chair from what looked like sheer delight at his meal. Doing an explosive movement with his fingers he moved his hand from his mouth and then ended the movement with a thumbs-up. Very Good he had said.

Talking ceased after that. To be honest the toast and cheese started to churn in my stomach as I thought about the approaching events of the day. I excused myself from the table once I had finished and made my way back to my room to prepare. Fluttering sensations would arise in my chest and I pushed them aside and recounted the quotes my father would share with me each year before I would go to the reaping. It was sort of a tradition.

My first year when I was twelve was, "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear" Mark Twain. I thought Pop was trying to tell me it was okay to be afraid but we cannot let the fear overtake us and that will gives us courage. I repeated the words in my head over and over again until I felt my breath even out a little more.

The second year at age thirteen he told me "What is true of the individual will be tomorrow true of the whole nation if individuals will but refuse to lose heart and hope" Mahatma Gandhi. At that age when he told me this I thought he meant he didn't want me to give up, because if I did then everyone here would stop rooting for me. Being older now I've started to see a trend in all of his quotes and I believe Pop thinks there's something much bigger happening here with the Games. I recalled the rest of the quotes.

"If children have the ability to ignore all odds and percentages, then maybe we can all learn from them. When you think about it, what other choice is there but to hope? We have two options… give up, or fight like hell." Lance Armstrong, a quote he found on a scrap of glossy thin paper in the Seam. It was to be taken with the rest of paper of the same material and burned for heat. At age fourteen I thought he was telling me to remember the kids of the past who had won; the ones who weren't in the career packs. After all I was now a teenager and so I didn't see myself as a child anymore so therefore he must have been talking to me and telling me to learn from these "children".

Age fifteen: "We are not animals. We are not a product of what has happened to us in our past. We have the power of choice" Stephen Covey.

Age sixteen: "Every mind must make its choice between truth and repose. It cannot have both" Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I ran all of the quotes through my head over and over again and forced myself to finally see what I was afraid Pop was teaching Robbie and I all of these years. If chosen for these games Pop wants us to win, but more importantly he wants us to make a statement. He wants to start a… I paused and forced myself to get to the conclusion. He wants to start a revolution.

Ever since I was able to read Pop had given me book after book about the past. Some were similar to the books we had at school only they went deeper. They revealed why we ended up the way we are now, where nuclear weapons came from, conflicting government beliefs, and wars, so many wars. They spoke of wars far before our time. Horrors of the past such as sending millions of people to camps and slaughtering them based upon their beliefs. What were nightmares at that time is reality now. The world was appalled that people could be oppressed in such a way, that children would be forced to work, or would starve, be beaten, experimented on, and more. I had always wondered if these nations of the past would come and fight for us if they had still existed today.

We read science books too and fiction. I know about chemical reactions and how plants and animals live. I've practiced higher mathematics, more than what they've taught us in school which is basic algebra. Who knew that mathematics could explain some of the physical part of our world? Like falling and shooting an arrow, or spinning a wheel, even how we hear or see? It's quite remarkable. Of course Robbie and I are forbidden to let on we know more than what school has taught us.

"Knowledge is a great weapon," Pop once said, "if others found out that we had it, we would become a great threat to them."

"I feel like our training is more threatening than a few facts," I threw back when I was thirteen, back when I thought I knew everything, "We can fight like no other person! We know weak points and how to move like lightning!"

I showed off a few moves. It was somewhat true. Out of all of the books we owned one of the coolest and oldest was one that explained the techniques of Martial arts. It was homemade and compiled of diagrams. Its origin traced back to the time of what was in America's history, the second world war. After the war our ancestor was placed at a military spot in Okinawa, Japan. Here he started learning a method called Karate. He started this book and wrote down everything he could. He taught it to his children who taught it to their children. As time went on different generations learned different forms of martial arts such as jujutsu kung-fu and more. Our training has blended many of these methods together. Like I said before, books like these were burned and their practices forbidden. The only ones who knew how to really fight were those trained by the Capitol.

I remembered he shook his head in a disappointed way. "No, that is but a part of your training. Any person can physically wound you and leave you unable to fight. But ideas that are strong live on even after a person is left handicapped or dead. You must understand, Emera, everything physical deteriorates with time, but an idea can be immortal."

And that's what Pop sees the Games as an opportunity for. So far we've been taught in the underground; living in secret with our weapons just waiting for the right chance. Every year the Games end in the same way and he becomes more and more frustrated. Every year after, Robbie's and my training becomes more and more intense. Grant it, Robbie is starting out where I did as far as the physical training and it is more difficult for him in that aspect, but he's different. He can see and understand something far beyond his classmates. But I'm old enough to go into the Games and he's not. I'm supposed to start a fire.

There it is; the thick feeling of my heart sliding into my throat. I feel it resting there, suffocating me. Could I do that? Will I do it? If the time comes, if I'm chosen can I be the person I've been trained to be? My palms started to sweat and I couldn't feel my feet. If I'm picked today every decision I make won't just be to survive, it will be to do the right thing. In the heat of the moment I know fight or flight will kick in but will I be able to make a decision that will say which is the right to do considering the situation?

It is time to have a talk with Pop.