I race into the woods, hoping the brown shoulder backpack I grabbed at the Cornucopia doesn't fly off my scarred back. I put more energy in my irregular pace, evening it out until it's a steady drumbeat. My breath is cold and rages, and my feet are beginning to tire. I race along the frozen ground, wondering if my friends would put some weird, futuristic, fantasy like weapon on me at the beginning of the Hunger Games. My friends are the game makers, by the way… Usually people in the districts wouldn't be friendly with their enemies, but… I'm technically not from the districts. I am from the Capitol. After watching 14 Hunger Games, on television, surrounded by disorienting colorful dresses and cheering and bobbing hats oblivious to their wearer, I had had enough.
I had never cheered when a little girl from District Seven died, only cried. I had never wore pink and green to the parties, only black. I'd thought it was the most I could do.
But it wasn't the most I could do. I realized that a couple months ago. I thought there was no way I could stop the annual event that made up our nation, but now, I thought, as I raced, maybe I could.