So, I always wondered what life would have been like for Katniss had she never been reaped into the Quarter Quell and had there been no rebellion, so I wrote this! The first chapter is mostly taken from Chapter 12 of Catching Fire, so you know where it starts off, Of course, I altered about two sentences to make my story happened. I obviously do not own The Hunger Games, or I would not be writing fan fiction. This is my first story on here, so I would REALLY appreciate some constructive criticism. I know that there isn't much to go by in Chapter 1, as it is mostly taken directly from the book, but it would be very appreciated in the future. I hope you enjoy reading it!
I'm about to shut off the television, but then Caesar is telling us to stay tuned for the other big event of the evening. "That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for our third Quarter Quell!" "What will they do?" asks Prim. "It isn't for months yet. We turn to our mother, whose expression is solemn and distant, as if she's remembering something. "It must be the reading of the card." The anthem plays, and my throat tightens with revulsion as President Snow takes the stage. He's followed by a young boy dressed in a white suit, holding a simple wooden box. The anthem ends, and President Snow begins to speak, to remind us all of the Dark Days from which the Hunger Games were born. When the laws for the Games were laid out, they dictated that every twenty-five years the anniversary would be marked by a Quarter Quell. It would call for a glorified version of the Games to make fresh the memory of those killed by the districts' rebellion.
These words could not be more pointed, since I suspect several districts are rebelling right now. President Snow goes on to tell us what happened in the previous Quarter Quells. "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." I wonder how that would have felt. Picking the kids who had to go. It is worse, I think, to be turned over by your own neighbors than have your name drawn from the reaping ball. "On the fiftieth anniversary," the president continues, "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes." I imagine facing a field of forty-seven instead of twenty-three. Worse odds, less hope, and ultimately more dead kids. That was the year Haymitch won... "I had a friend who went that year," says my mother quietly. "Maysilee Donner. Her parents owned the sweetshop. They gave me her songbird after. A canary." Prim and I exchange a look. It's the first we've ever heard of Maysilee Donner. Maybe because my mother knew we would want to know how she died. "And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," says the president. The little boy in white steps forward, holding out the box as he opens the lid. We can see the tidy, upright rows of yellowed envelopes. Whoever devised the Quarter Quell system had prepared for centuries of Hunger Games. The president removes an envelope clearly marked with a 75. He runs his finger under the flap and pulls out a small square of paper. Without hesitation, he reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even those that are older cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the ages of 15 to 21."
Right away, I thought of Prim. She would be safe this year. I thought of all of Gale's siblings. They were safe. Gale. Oh my god, Gale. He was 19. His name would go into the reaping ball again. His name will be in there 43 times.
"In addition," says President Snow, "those 18 years and older will have their entries doubled. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor." And with that, the television goes to a commercial about a music player that can wash dishes. Gale's name will be in the reaping ball 86 times. The odds are not in his favor.