They called it The Reaping, and it was televised for the viewing pleasure of Panem.
In all honesty, it wasn't as glamorous as anybody made it out to be. They herded the potential tributes - terrified looking kids, really - into small, compact crowds without their parents and made them wait for what seemed like a lifetime to hear who would be this year's lucky male and female, who would be losing their lives to the Capitol's straightjacket regime. Yet more innocent lives would be lost so that some upper-class family could have what they termed as entertainment beamed straight into their televisions, all while hiding in the safety of their high-rise apartments.
I was accustomed to war, however, don't get me wrong. The Rebellion had ensured that every child, teenager and adult across the thirteen - sorry, twelve - districts that made up Panem knew the everyday struggles that accompanied battle. So yes, I was accustomed to war, but this was not war. This was cold-blooded killing, murder disguised as entertainment; something so disgusting, serialised and glamorized that was broadcast for the wealthy and the privileged to enjoy. Throw twenty-four people - no, kids - into an arena, hand them weapons and tell them that the only way to survive is to kill every other person they come into contact with. Make them starve, sweat, panic and cry for their parents, just for the television cameras to broadcast their pain to the entire waking world - entertainment for the rich, a warning of what rebellion costs the poor. Who in their right mind could think that was entertainment?
And warn the poor it did. District Twelve had never had the privilege of being one of the richest places in the world, but before The Rebellion killed the miners, the parents and the soldiers alike, it had been a place full of heart and soul. The younger children still ran and danced and played hide-and-seek between the ramshackle buildings, but they now did so cautiously, scared to put a toe out of line for fear that the Peacekeepers - Panem's elite police force - would put a bullet through their skulls. At six-and-seven years old, death shouldn't be something you worry about. At that age, any child should be free of any worry, not nervously waiting to see if their name would be pulled from the large glass bowls that sat outside the Justice Building.
Crowds of people had already started to gather outside of the building, ready for the day's event. On any other day, the town square would have been relatively jovial; people smiling and exchanging pleasantries, small market stalls selling their wares, children chattering away to their parents. However, today was not just any other day. The silence that had fallen throughout the square was absolute, and standing to the side of the stage in my best clothes was like being trapped inside a bubble of nothingness. It got to you, the silence. Over the years, I had trained myself to keep my eyes from connecting with those of the terrified potential tributes, but I was yet to find a way to stop the silence from making me feel like I was drowning.
The second that the solid clack of heels against cement echoed around the square, I knew that the attention of every person in District Twelve would be on the stage. Each year, the Capitol sent one of their own to escort their little packages of entertainment to the rena, and District Twelve had the undeniable honour of having Pomeline Combe as the district escort.
She was sour-faced, even when faced with the rolling Capitol video cameras. A violent clash of neutrals and brights, she was clad head-to-foot in grey and red. Grey hair - but of course she wasn't old - and red lips, grey tights and red shoes, with a grey and red spotted dress to finish off the garish ensemble. In all of my years of dealing with the woman now attempting to force a smile on the stage, I had struggled to find one reason to like her. District Twelve was not her first preference - after years of escorting people from wealthier districts, she had been dumped in District Twelve, replaced by younger and chirpier escorts. She must have been heartbroken.
"Welcome," she announced, her voice amplified so loudly that I could probably have heard her if I were in the Capitol, "to the fiftieth annual Hunger Games."
Silence, as always. For the first few years, people had clapped purely out of politeness, but not one person now bothered to applaud the announcement of another bloodbath. Pomeline cleared her throat, scowling at the lack of enthusiasm and continuing the speech that had no doubt been printed out word-for-word on the card held between her taloned fingers.
"As you all know, this year marks half a century since the Games were first introduced. Twenty-five years saw the introduction of the first Quarter Quell and this year, our fiftieth Game, is the second Quarter Quell."
My full attention was now on Pomeline and the sparkling gold envelope that she had pulled from a pocket. Whatever surprise the Capitol had in store, it couldn't be good. A Quarter Quell had the sole task of making the Games more difficult than they were every year and with them only happening every twenty-five years, they made an active effort to create twists that ensured as much death and destruction as was possible. I was born a year too late to see the first Quarter Quell in person, but my status as District Twelve's only victor would ensure that I would see this one.
"In this envelope, I hold this year's Quarter Quell twist."
With an astonishing lack of concern painted across her face, Pomeline used a scarlet nail to rip open the top of the envelope. Pursing her lips together in what I assumed was a triumphant smile, she turned back to the microphone, clutching the card that held the twist as if it were made of pure gold.
"The Rebellion caused many casualties and deaths across the region of Panem. For each Capitol citizen that was killed during the Dark Days, two rebels died. As a reminder, this year will see double the amount of tributes being reaped for the games. Each district will offer up two girls and two boys to participate. Twenty-four tributes will enter the arena, and only one will leave to join the existing Victors."
Silence.
"And, as always, may the odds be ever in your favour."