Katniss Everdeen's father was more than just a miner. He was a rationalist. Mr. Everdeen taught his daughter how to think, and how to use that most dangerous of weapons: the human mind.
They call this "reaping day," but I don't like that phrase. It obscures reality.
Today, the Capitol will select the names of twenty-four teenagers out of a large glass bowl, and twenty-three of them will die fighting each other in bloody combat. On television. The one kid who doesn't die usually develops severe psychological issues, unless he or she already happens to be a psychopath. Sometimes that's the case, but not often.
Today, the Hunger Games begin.
Seventy-four years ago, the 13 Districts of Panem rebelled against the Capitol. We lost, or so the story goes. I doubt the people who write our history books prioritize accuracy, and I'm not sure whether we ever rebelled at all. I rather hope we did, but I find it hard to believe. Our present is so listless - why should our past have been any different? In either case, we allow the Capitol to exploit us.
It seems we suffer under some sort of national Stockholm Syndrome.
Very few of us question the state of the world. Every hint I drop to a would-be free thinker — that we might take action, or make things better — meets with a vacant stare. Gale is the one exception. We read the Forbidden Books in my secret cabin by the lake. We chat over Hofsteader and Hume, Tocqueville and Jaynes. We hunt deer and rabbits. For any of these activities, I could be killed. I'm not allowed to cross under the electric fence which borders our District. I'm not allowed to enter the woods, or visit my cabin. I hunt Capitol land on pain of death, if I'm discovered. But it's all worth it.
Now, I walk to the village square for our reaping. Our death lottery. A few years ago, I started calling it that in private conversation, to see how others would respond — whether they might break with tradition when presented with non-conforming thought. No dice. Instead, people just stopped talking to me. That was fine, really, but a bit too obvious. I call it the reaping now, like everyone else.
While the people of District 12 annoy me, this isn't really their fault. We've all been molded by hideous environmental conditions. The Peacekeepers tell us what to do, what to say, and what to think. They do keep a few things — what's a totalitarian state without a bit of corruption? — but not peace. Taxes hover around 100%, despite the complete absence of public services. Mostly, we live a terrible life. Not so much because we are impoverished as because we have no aspirations. What's the best a hard-working citizen of District 12 can hope for? A cushy job in the coal mining industry.
As labor.
I don't and won't do that. It's not just that I'm too young to work in the mines, or that I'm a girl (they send in plenty of women). No, it's that I'd rather break the law. I'd rather kill animals and sell them on the black market. I am smart enough to get away with these things, so why not? One day I'll start a rebellion, if I can ever find a way to keep the rest of my family from harm. Dying would be bad, but otherwise things can't get that much worse. I don't have much to lose. The Capitol destroyed my father in the mines, and at my hands it will burn.
The moral arithmetic here is quite straightforward.
Our public square comes into view, and it's already filled with an enormous number of people. They bustle and jostle with grim eyes and stark expressions. The Peacekeepers break us children into groups based upon age, and we stand to attention in the center of the clearing. Older residents surround us. No one looks happy, with the possible exception of Effie Trinket.
Effie is either a good actor or a sociopath. I've never been able to tell which. She's a representative from the Capitol, and her function would be ridiculous if only it weren't so terrible. Like a Dark pied piper, she carries children away to death in the Games. At least she does it in high style. The stilted Capitol accent rolls off her tongue, and explanation points trail her every sentence. I suppose it's possible that Effie is stupid, and that she has no idea what she's doing when she reaps children for the Capitol. I don't believe that. I've seen the intelligence behind her eyes. She has an agenda. What that might be, I can't know.
Our mayor finishes reading his long list of platitudes, and Effie takes the podium. "Happy Hunger Games!" she shouts. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Sure, Effie. What a joke.
Now she starts with her own set of platitudes. I tune this out. It's the same every year, and more annoying for the repetition. Instead, I search for Gale in the crowd. He's older than I am by two years, and I find him in a cluster of boys a few groups ahead. Our eyes meet, and we exchange tight-lipped smiles. Best of luck, our expressions say.
Eventually, Effie finishes babbling about how much we deserve the yoke of our Capitol's oppression, and it's time to choose the "tributes." Another political euphemism, just as abhorrent as the others: one boy and one girl to die in the Games. And those chosen today will almost certainly die. No one from District 12 has won in twenty-four years.
"Ladies first!" Effie says, and one hand briefly flies up to adjust her wig. It's bright orange, and garish. Perhaps she's compensating for something? Her free hand drops into the bowl.
As I watch Effie's groping fingers, worried thoughts pass to my mother and sister. My family doesn't exactly share my priorities, and we have a bit of a communication problem. Mother may be a wonderful healer, but she's a totally despondent conversationalist. I don't think she's said a single interesting word to me since my father's death. And my sister, Prim, is in some ways even worse.
I'll often say something radical like, "I shouldn't have to be a slave."
To this, or any other bit of subversive political speech, my sister will provide her Fully General Counterargument. "But Katniss, that shouldn't matter. We can learn to be happy with our simple lives."
As if she wants to learn anything. And then my mother will top this off with a sage nod of her head. Family!
It's a wonder I haven't killed them myself.
But I worry for Prim, as Effie's hand trawls the bowl. My sister would not fare well in the Games. She's twelve years old, and very small. I tell myself that probability is on her side. Older children are more likely to be selected. While my name appears on twenty-two of the slips, Prim's only appears on one. My sister may be hopeless, but I still want her safe.
Effie continues to grope around, drawing out the moment of tension. It's as if she has some specific strip of paper in mind. Perhaps it's staged, or else they pay her by the minute. When at last her hand emerges from the bowl, Effie smiles. Her orange hair gleams in the sun. "And our winner is..."
"Primrose Everdeen!"