"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."
They were gathered together. All ten of them. Gritted teeth watching the projector grimly. President Mission was reading from a crinkled cue card, reminding everyone of the horrific events from previous years.
A few of them were holding hands nervously, incessant fiddling was rife, and Kevin thought he might gnaw his bottom lip clean off.
"On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."
It was the last year that any of them would be eligible for The Hunger Games, and it just so happened to be held on the 125th anniversary. That meant a Quarter Quell. They hadn't been alive to experience the hundredth anniversary, but they had been required to watch re runs. Knowing what had happened then was enough to increase the tension tenfold.
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes were reaped from their existing pool of victors."
The memory of those games had been washed out. There was barely anything to remind the districts of what had happened. Film footage was scarce, and information about the following uprising was hard to find.
It didn't matter anyway, because shortly government forces had risen up again, and Panem was once again under Capitol control.
"On the hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that there is very little hope for them at all, districts were required to enter all children of eligible age into the arena."
It had been a blood bath more terrible and frightening than anyone had ever seen before. Every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen had been slaughtered. All except one.
He had come from their very own district. District nine, gatherers of grain, overlooked and humble, had produced a victor. No one knew quite how he'd done it. The young farmer boy named Joe.
"On the hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the strength needed to kill enemies is great, but the strength needed to kill friends is greater, all tributes will be reaped from the same district."
A collective intake of breath was heard, followed by a general sense of relief.
"What are the chances?"
"It won't be us."
"They'll want a good show, it will be a career district."
A montage of all eleven districts followed by footage of the wreckage of twelve and thirteen flashed across the screen, presumably so the second segment of the broadcast could be prepared. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, President Mission was back on the screen.
A glass bowl was presented to him containing eleven slips of paper. His spindly fingers rummaged in the bowl for a moment before they clasped onto a crisp cut and folded scrap.
"The district represented in the hundred and twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games will be district…nine."