Please note, all creative license to the Hunger Games does not belong to the author of this story. Please don't sue.
Book One: Turning Tides
Chapter One
My eyes flicker to life, my ears pick up the humming of wind bracing against the walls of my shack and the pittering of rain on the tin roof. As I realize I'm awake, I also realize I'm staying that way. My body aches and pops as I stretch out across the beaten, old bed, barely big enough to hold my body. The stink and musk from the sheets and blanets fills my nostrils, making me sneeze repeatedly. I try to relax, forcing myself back into rest before a long day of work. That is, until I realize what day it is. The day of the Reaping, and a special one at that. This year, the capital will broadcast the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games, but this will be the very first of the Quarter Quells. And more importantly, its the last time I will be eligible for the Reaping. The next time the capital calls for a tribute, I'll be watching from the streets, too old for my name to be included.
The Quell is a time when the percieved rules handed down by the capital are tossed out the window and anything can supposedly happen. This year, instead of everyone dreading Reaping day, the President informed us a few months ago that we would be voting for our tributes this year. I'm sure it would be a difficult decision for some of the lesser districts, the non-career districts. The places where kids are barely fed and clothed and cannot train in a career center. Officially, its a place for kids to hone skills and learn craft and trade. Unofficially, its a factory for bloodthirsty killers, whose job is go into the arena and slaughter anyone who gets in their way. This year is less than promising, I'm the only boy my age who could really care for himself in the games. The rest are either too weak from the feverpox outbreak (a pandemic that broke when I was young, maybe pre-existing biowarfare tactics leftover from the dark days), some downright crippled by the powerful disease. I myself bear a pox scare up my back. There are more than enough kids that will be better trained, more alluring to our district than I. I have nothing to worry about.
I blink until my vision comes back to me. Its still dark out, but most likely close to dawn, with the rain clouds masking the little light that would be painting the sky by now. My eyes, adjusted to the dark, scan the walls of my home. Masterfully crafted rods and reels, hooks of all designs and sizes, handspun lures splashing a rainbow of colors next to strong, artisan nets, all decorate the woodplank walls. A wooden tabletop at the far end of the room is used for cutting on typical days, yet today lays clean and empty, save for a newly sharpened cleaver and filet knife. Its been hard for me, this year. What I would normally catch in a month has barely been accumulated in the whole of what is suposed the be the busiest season of the year. I can still poach around the small island that holds my home, (marsh and muck assuring my solitude from most people, including peacekeepers), and most times that enough. When it isn't, I have to risk setting nets and traps near the bay, where the capital patrols harshly. Poaching on capital property is a death wish and the actions of the most desperate. And if the guards weren't bad enough, the capital's swamp muttations, King Crocs (massive reptiles that can grow up to thirty feet long, with barbs for teeth and arms and legs the size of tree trunks) reside in a sectioned off area of the bay, near the banks.
I'm grateful for the careers, always volunteering their lives so we don't have to. Making the sign-up for tesserae rations a consequentless commodity. We haven't exactly had a winning tribute in the last few years. The only other districts more profitable than us (and not by coincidence the only other two real career districts), Districts one and two, have seemingly owned the games for the past decade or so. Maybe this quarter quell, with its new conditions, can provide us with a new advantage... or maybe it will just ensure their victory. I've watched the Games since I was old enough to process what was actually happening. It wasn't the killing, the gore and inhumanity of the event that attracted me. It was the selfreliance. The basic instincts coming out of people and shining. The triumph of the innerstrength of a person. Survival.
I can remember, at one time, I actually wanted to enter, to win glory for my district. Looking back, a foolish thought from a young boy, caught up in the propaganda of the capital's blatant display of authority. I was never invited to attend the Training center. At least not at the right time. By the time I was old enough to attend, my father was swept away by a flash flood while fishing. The current took everything; his boat, his crew, his haul from the day, and, most devastatingly, his life. There were times in school, during the phys-ed classes, where we would play combat-based games (capture/defend the base, invasion, protect the target, and the class favorite, tribute-ball) where I shined. I remember how proud my father was when report cards came in. Good grades, yes, but he seemed to take more importance from the comments of my coaches. "Shows traits of leadership, intuition, natural strength, integrity, and adaptability. Shows great promise as Tribute if he keeps this pace." I wonder what he waould say if he could see me now.
I realize I still haven't gotten out of bed and force myself to slide my feet into a fresh(ish) pair of socks and pull on my cleanest pair of slacks. My boots and an undershirt follow and I finish with my father's pin (a star with once blue, red and white paint long since worn away) attached to the shirt. It was given to me by mother after the search parties gave up on my father.
"Its the only thing we have left of him, so you have to keep it safe, ok?" I can still remember her trying to choke out between the sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ever since, there hasn't been a day I haven't worn it. It didn't take long for the fever to catch her and take her from me, too. Normally, I'd have fallen into custody of the capital, sent to a cildren's home and raised by horrid people under less than squalor conditions. But the head peacekeeper, Rax Hawthorne, knew my father well. Were even good friends at a time, my father had remarked once. He took me to my mother's cousin's house across the district and I lived there for a time. Once I was old enough to care for myself, however, I would return to my parents' house and live on my own, and everyone kept shut about it. It didn't take long, my "aunt" taught me to do laundry and cook while my "uncle" taught me fishing and how to deal and trade with people, among other life ncessities. I was on my own within the season. They checked in on me everyday for a long time until I had convinced them I was fine. But I couldn't have been fine, I was an orphan. And living in the house where my mother had made me dinner, rocked me to sleep and sang to me when I was sick; the place my father patched and repaired with his bare hands and read me stories and smoked from his old hickory pipe... it was too much for a kid to live with. I made arrangements with Hawthorne and my aunt and sold the house to move in the old fishing shack my father used for work. The place I spent on weekends and summers, the smell of fish innards and moss infiltrating memories. The place where I forced myself to abandon childhood and accept the responsibilities of life.
I clean out my old coffee pot (an item most people would view as a luxury, I deem necessity), fill it with water and place it on the spit. I toss a small log and some tinder onto the coals, still warm from last night's dinner and breathe a fire to life. After the water gets warm enough, I drop a small coffee pack in the pot and let it brew to term. I open my small refridgerater and remove a small peice of bread and cheese, placing them on the table. The coffee pot whistles and I pull it from the fire, pour a large cup full. I grab the sandwhich and coffee and walk outside, the last chill of winter, lingering later in the year than it should, greets me.
I watch the star-flies (another muttation of the capital, a cross between a dragonfly and a firefly, with stingers that excrete venom that can actually leave first degree burns, though are apathetic unless provoked) dance over the water, among the trees until the sun is high enough to cast streaks of orange and red in the overcast sky. Remarkable creatures, the star-flies. Like fireflies, they glow in the twilight. However, the luminescence appears to flow through the entire body and can display an entire hue of colors from all across the spectrum, any color perceivable. My guess, they must have been a cosmetic design turned too risky to let free in the capital. Since they favor unpopulated areas, I'm one of the few people in my village that gets to see them.
I finish my coffee and not knowing what to do with myself, I walk back into the shack and kick the dirty laundry on the floor into a pile to clean later. I grab the cleaver (admittedly undersized for the intended purpose, but strong enough to get the job done) and begin to sharpen it with a whetstone purchased recently. I have a lot of time to kill, seeing as most citizens of Panem will be sleeping in today. Its a holiday, after all. I've never been one to sleep in. Not with the hours I put in out on the water. Usually, I would be checking nets and traps right now, recovering what meager bounty the lakes and bayous have to offer. Then, I'd be off to school where the instructors would teach me history and all about why the capital is right and rebellion is wrong. And fishing. The one thing I excel at, and they laughably try to teach me. I can't stand how ignorant the teachers are sometimes. I constantly correct them on the correct procedures for preparing the catch and dealing with dangerous wildlife, getting access to a permit and processing the capital's tax system (based on the household, the capital always takes a small portion of fish from every fisherman that records his catch) and so on. Most of them probably never set foot on a boat.
Next year, I'll be out on one of the large vessels, not my small hand-me-down motorboat. And I won't get to keep what I catch, that will all belong to the Capitol. And I won't be a trader. I don't have it in me to rip people off for personal gain. The traders here, with a few rare exemptions, are almost as cut-throat as the King Crocs. Maybe moreso during a slow season.
After a while, I look out the doorway and see that most of the star-flies have fled to their nests and the sun is illuminating most of the trees that break the water's surface. It's still a while before the rest of the town will be awake, but it will be a long boat trip and if I still arrive too early, I can while the remaining time at my friend Saya's house. Although, calling her a friend would be like calling the capital a dump. She has always been there for me. And her family by extension. Especially when my each of my parents passed and she helped me realize I wasn't alone with the pain. I've always depended on her. A sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on. Always there, never judging.
We met in the schoolyard at an age when the Games didn't mean anything to us. Our mothers had been friends when they were younger and were more than delighted when they found out we had become fond of each other. I can't say that being just friends for the rest of our lives would be ideal for me. Finding the courage to spill all of the affections, the infatuations I've held back for ages, that's the huddle I must overcome. Even though its unspoken, everyone knows our district has ridiculously attractive citizens, something the announcers and stylists make great fuss over. She's always been a shining example of this trait. Boys have been clamoring after her for as long as I can remember, but she never grants them the interest they die for. I can't help but notice that they're often green with hate for me, getting to spend so much time with her. But I can't see what she sees in me.
I lock up the shack and walk out to the small dock running parallel to my island, not twenty feet from my door. The wood planks, swollen with water, creak under my feet as I walk over them and jump into the old boat. The rain has stopped now, thankfully. I crank the engine until it spurts and gurgles to a steady purr and I speed off towards town. I weave through the trees, coated with red and green panem-moss, and by the time I tie my boat to the dock in town, the sun is well up and warmth is penetrating the air, weighing it down with humidity. I pay off the marina owner just as she is closing up, and make my way up one of the trails that head up into the main square. People have started to come alive, and many seem on edge, which I can't condemn. Reaping day is and always will be one of those events that no matter how many times you see one, it always takes a little bit more of yourself out of you.
I wave to some familiar faces and even stop to exchange a few words with a some of the older people making a slower pace than everyone else. I see everyone, kids who will be attending their first ever reapings to ones that will be entered for the first time. Parents tucking in shirts and smoothing down hair, making a fuss over appearace as if somehow, the escort will take some pity and spare them the horror of the games. The little ones, dressed in their nicer clothes, race back and forth up the street. Cobblestones replace the dirt road and I know I'm close to the mayor's mansion. Aromas fill the air here. Fresh baked goods from the bakery, the butcher's shop smelling of blood, meat, and sterilizer. Some things I smell before I see, like freshly bloomed flowers down the main walk. My nose hasd always been hyper-sensitive. My father used to call me the Bloodhound, as I always seemed to appear at the dinner table before my mother had called me in from playing. He was right, to some degree. I do have an almost superhuman sense of smell, an ability that doesn't always help (especially around water or already pungent aromas).
But as I make my to the mayor's door, the garden reminds me of days past. Long summer days spent with Saya as we grew up together. Through fights, through tragedy, through everything, most of it gravitated here. I pluck a small purple flower - her favorite color - and knock on the heavy wooden door. Her little brother, Soto, answers, half-dressed in what looks to be the best clothes a boy can get in this district. Even at my six feet or so, I still have to tilt my head up to meet his face. Soto, despite being two years younger, towered over pretty much every boy in District 4 and even most adults.
"Hey, Artemis," he addresses. I must be expected. "You excited?" he asks, meaning the results of the election. Soto always seemed to have a fascination with the games, unlike mine. He has been training in the Career Center for a few years now. Now that I think about it, I'm fairly certain his name will be the one called today.
"As excited as the next guy I guess," I brush him off, not intending to be rude. "Unless the next guy is you," I save. This brings a small smirk across his face.
"Come on in, I'll call Saya." He turns and bounds up the spiral staircase leading to the second floor, an area forbidden to guests. My only guess is the Mayor couldn't have just any person snooping around his home to find sensitive decuments about the District or even the Capitol. That, or he doesn't trust me enough to be around his personals and valuables.
I pace around the foyer, examining all of the art pieces adorning the walls when one in particular catches my eye. Its a bird, black feathers with white on it's underbelly. A mockingjay. Perched on a tree, but in mid takeoff. The tree beneath it has orange and reddish hues, no doubt catching the light of a fire of somesort. When I take a closer look, the no mistaking the source. A miniscule detail, a small explosion being reflected in the bird's eye, a detail surely most owners would have overlooked. It must be from the bombing on 13 in the dark days, when the Capitol finally ended the rebellion and siezed an iron, choking grip on us.
There's some reaction, a fire rising inside me (roused from the painting, no doubt), when I hear footsteps from behind. I only catch the tailend of a comment from the Mayor to Saya.
" ...so I have to go ahead and go. Please don't be late, dear. All my love and good luck, princess." His eye catches mine and I smile.
"Good morning, Mayor," I say. Despite the years around Saya, the dinners I've spent at this very house, I still keep a demeanor of professionalism around her father.
"...Art..." he quavers in response, an odd tone polluting his voice, though I can't place it exactly. He hurries past me and pulls the door shut behind him. I'm lost in curiosity and offended confusion. Then I catch the perfume - no, the natural aroma - that only one person posesses. And before I can turn to see her face, she practically tackles me from behind and her giggles arrive with the warmth of her breath on the back of my ear. I hide the fact my heart is pounding as she lets go and I turn to face her. Saya's natural beauty is only complimented by her makeup, powder around her green-flecked eyes, a touch to shade her cheeks, a nude shade of lipstick painted on her lips, just to address their natural fullness. She's dressed in a simple, deep-blue dress, the typical unifying color of District 4. It fits naturally over her curves, and hangs down just to her mid-calf. Her dark brown hair is tied into an intricate bun and decorated with pins and jewelery.
"Saya... wow," is all that I can get out, my heart having jump into my throat and blocking the words I really want to say.
"Yeah, its overkill, huh? Mother insisted, but is it too much?" she asks, and I realize I'm staring. My mind catches up to me.
"Uhh, for a reaping, I'd have to say so. The dresses you usually wear are so nice," I flatter. "You know every girl in Panem is going to be sick with jealousy."
She laughs and we chat for some time, teasing and exchanging banter. Once Soto has come downstairs, fully dresses and ready to go, we leave the small mansion and make our way to the District center, a massive square not to far from the mayor's house. I make uncomfortable small talk with Saya's little brother as boys and friends come up and occupy Saya's time. For every one that leaves, two to three more appear, forming a small crowd around us. Around her. Compliments on her dress, her hair, her make-up. Just her. Her crowd melts into the larger communal of parents saying goodbye, friends wanting to stand and observe together. And the busiest people it seems, the bookies taking bets and yelling odds. Considering the Quell, there's any number of things they can bet on. Age, hair color, what area of the district they're from.
We're pressed shoulder to shoulder, toe to heel, and Saya grabs my hand, sending my chest into another pounding frenzy. I can feel her nerves, so I give her hand a light squeeze and flash her a smile. This must help, because she seems to shake less. We walk through the gates into a large staging area that feels more like a holding pen for cattle. Peacekeepers, armed to the teeth, watch from guard towers. I can't tell if their here to protect us or make sure no one runs away. I let Saya's hand slip and she breaks away to the registration table on the other side of the courtyard from mine. I recite my name for the capitol attendant, who makes a note that I am present and waves me through.
After quite some time standing around, staring at dirt, the large metal gates slam shut, making several of the guys around me start. Everyone is apparently here. I look around to see that, while the girl's side is bursting over with eligible tributes, the boy's side is an almost contradiction, a severe deficit due to the pox plague that was left over from the dark days. My eyes shift to the stage, where I see Saya's father speaking to our new escort (official story is, the last one was part of some accident involving bad shellfish at a party in the capitol). Frantic hand gestures and an obviously flustered mayor reignite the curious behavior the mayor exhibited before. But before I can try to put a finger on it, he settles down and my fickle attention is drawn to the new escort. A portly, if not downright bloated man in a bright red suit, giving him the unsubtle appearance of a ripened tomato. He'll be the person to attend to all of the Tibutes' Capitol happenings. Keep them on schedule and shape them up for all of their public appearances.
The other two seats on the stage are occupied by the most recent Victors, who I'm assuming will take charge of training for this year. The man, Caleb Proctor, sits in a deep orange suit with a white flower I've seen dressing up clean ponds and fountains around the nicer parts of District4. If I remember right, he one almost a decade ago. He stayed underwater for several minutes after being betrayed by the careers from one and two. He hunted them down and killed all of them in the dead of a dark arena night. Afterwards, he waited on a lake until onl he and a tribute from 7 were left. They met in a swamp near the cornucopia and he drowned the other boy, securing his return. His trauma takes physical manifestation in his hair, leaving grey streaks through the brown. His eyes, a bright brown iris, probe the crowd, judging the crowd and examining us scrupulously, grimace and shakes show imaptience.
Next to him is a younger woman, who I believe to be his wife, Elise. Unlike her companion, she is smiling and waving into the crowd. Red hair twisted into two braids running down behind her shoulders, small wrinkles show from around her small lips when she stops smiling, squint lines around her eyes. She, in her late twentys, is only a few years younger than Caleb. All I can remember from her Games was she hid and survived until the final eight when she dropped a tree on one girl and lured the last three into a pit of quicksand.
There's a long wait, the air filled with conversations and excitement. I think about the other districts, how difficult it must be, to select from a pool of kids who can barely survive, let alone train themselves for a battle royale, an assured demise in the arena. Save of course, for one and two, who have reserves of Careers to call upon. I'm sure they made a big event of getting to choose this years representatives. My legs get restless as the mayor stands and approaches the podium, with its one microphone. He addresses us, reads off the tragedies of the dark days, the flooding and disaster that took so much from our people, the rebellion, the unified death of district 13. Reminds us that this is a solemn time of repentance and reflection and blah blah blah. He drones on, head buried, eyes cast away as he addresses Mr. Wilheim Stark.
"Hello, everyone. What an honor it is to represent the glorious District 4. This year, as you all know, is the Quarter Quell, a most auspicious occasion," he states. Auspicious? Is that what they're calling it in the capitol? "Now, to announce this years tributes, as voted in by you, the citizens!" he exclaims and pulls and envelope from under his jacket. "The young lady that has the honor of being your tribute in the Quell is... Blaire Rosewood!" There are cheers and from the overflowing, roped off section I see a tall girl emerge - dressed in a simple white dressed, her short hair barely reaching her shoulders. I recognize her, have seen her around the school and emerging from the career center. I can't say I've had the privilege of meeting her, but something about her demeanor, the calmness of her stride (nervous, yet proud) is striking. "Let's give it up for Ms. Rosewood!" Another round of halfhearted applause and he's ready to announce the tribute for the boys. "And the young man attending this year's Hunger Games, to fight for the glory of this wonderous district is..."
I ponder he will call. Soto? If not him, which muscular boy from the career center? I go through a list of names when I notice the dead silence permeating the air. I look up and many eyes are looking around, searching for the face to match the name that I missed. Some eyes are glued to me. A shove, a whisper, all lead up to a state of disorientation.
"Artemis Knox?" I hear the tomato man say into the microphone. Another push and I'm the void between the boys and girls. On the stage. Shaking Stark's hand. I snap back into my head, look into the audience, hear someone scream and see shuffling in the crowd of girls. Saya.. I'm thankful for her friends, holding her place.
"...and may the odds be ever in your favor!" I hear Stark say. I blank out again, and when I refocus, I'm down a hall, lined with more peacekeepers, and tossed into a holding room. The door shuts and I slump down into a chair, still trying to figure out exactly what is happening.
"What.. What just happened...?" I say. To no one. Just me and the chair and wall. "I... I'm the Tribute?"