I wake up in my bed and pull the sheets closer, the cold from the sterile hovercraft room is uninviting. I dare not open my eyes, knowing as soon as I wake I'll have to find Haymitch and apologize. After all, the scratches down his face won't heal quickly. But I'm sure he's found some liquor to take the edge off. Someone moves beside me, rattling instruments next to my bed. I pray it's not another sedative, I'll be like those morphlings from Six in no time. Even the one who saved Peeta looked beyond repair. Peeta. My heart sinks into my stomach and I stifle a groan. Where is he? What have they done? These thoughts only make me more nauseous. Finally I let my eyes pop open to take in the stale white of the room they're storing me in, waiting for the edge of the arena to ware off. Joke's on them. It never does.
But I am not on board a hovercraft. A rebel medic is not preparing to pull me under again. My mother is arranging her healing tools on the other side of my bedroom. I am in my bed in Victor's Village and I can practically smell the smoldering rubble beyond my window. Oh yeah, District Twelve has been reduced to this. The lonely houses Peeta, Haymitch, and I inhabit. It's supposed to be an honor. Then why does it feel like misery? Maybe because I know there's no Hob, no Mellark Bakery, no Justice Building.
I manage to sit up on my elbows, stare at the back of my mother. She looks frail, unsubstantial. I wonder when she last had a meal. "Where's Prim?" I croak. She spins around to look at me, the shock on her face is quickly replaced with a smile.
"Good morning. It's barely dawn. Go back to sleep." she coos, walking over to tuck me in again. But she teeters as she walks, hunger and fatigue taking over. But no, there's something else. Grief. I know that look well. It set up shop almost permanently on her face when my father died. But I'm home now, I survived the Quell. Where was this coming from?
"Prim?" I demand again, my voice finding strength as I rise even further. But every bone in my body creaks, my muscles protest in agony. The spot in my arm where Johanna cut out my tracker burns like pure fire.
"Katniss," my mother begins, trying to force me to lie down again. A low hiss at the end of my bed catches my attention. As I dislodge my feet from under my tight covers, Buttercup has lost his makeshift bed. I scowl at him and he hops down, flicking his tail up as he retreats, deliberately showing me his rear end.
I'm trying to get to my feet, propelling myself forward one step at a time, when I hear it. The anthem of Panem echoes downstairs and I am frozen in surprise. Mostly from the fact that the Capitol is still broadcasting to District Twelve. Clearly, no one is left to see it. Disregarding my numerous injuries, I take to the stairs at a run, tripping over Buttercup on the bottom step. He bolts out the kitchen window as my mother follows, stooping down to pick me up from where I'm sprawled on the floor.
When I'm on my feet again, I hurl myself toward the source of the anthem, now replaced by commentary. I recognize the voices of Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith instantly. They often contribute to my nightmares. "Welcome back to our coverage of the 76th Hunger Games! Expedited by our beloved President Snow this year. And I must say, this turn of events has people buzzing!" Caesar says enthusiastically.
"Right you are, Caesar! For those of you just joining us, you may be aware of some of the technical difficulties faced during the Quarter Quell. President Snow has taken it upon himself to create a new set of games to start in just mere minutes. Caesar, care to explain?" Claudius turns back to him expectantly. I move closer to the screen, perplexed.
"Indeed, I do. In a brilliant attempt to correct the problems experienced during the Quell, President Snow has hand selected twenty-four new tributes to bring honor to the great country of Panem. Now, while two tributes from each District were not reaped traditionally, we guarantee some lively entertainment, folks. The gamemakers have been working diligently this week to provide a spectacular arena. And while you will recognize many familiar faces, we also have a crop of new competitors that ought to liven up the betting!" Caesar says triumphantly.
"May the odds be ever in their favor!" adds Claudius with zeal.
The screen changes quickly to a new arena, hastily constructed, but as breathtaking and deadly as ever. Twenty-four circular metal openings lay empty thirty yards from the giant Cornucopia. Its contents look sparse compared to previous years. Clearly, these "hand selected" tributes do not have the odds in their favor. It rests atop several tall pillars, at least twenty feet in the air. The pillars look to be old and decrepit, so I imagine the golden horn is actually suspended above them by some invisible plain. All around is a barren wasteland of sand and rock. No, I see trees on the opposite side of the Cornucopia.
I have stopped listening to the commentary, to the updates as the tributes enter their tubes. I sink to my knees in front of the television as the platforms rise and the tributes enter the arena. The clock begins to count down from sixty and the air is taken from my body. My heart has stopped, I'm suspended in another reality. Each face is shown across the screen and I don't recognize one. Two. Not even three. All twenty-four tributes are friends, allies, at the very least acquaintances. But I know these people and they know me. Not as a star-crossed lover or the girl on fire, but as Katniss Everdeen of District Twelve. The clock winds down as the camera passes Haymitch, Johanna, Gale, Madge, Peeta, and the last tribute. Shaking as she waits for the gong to sound. Prim.