Prologue
It's snowing again. Little white flakes falling down, coating the ground for the third day in a row. I feel like I can barely recall the last time snow wasn't stuck in every crevice of every crumbling building or torn up road, covering every surface visible or otherwise. I suppress a shiver and pull my jacket tighter around my body as I make my way out of the shop and down the street. I'm already late as it is, having taken longer than I expected preparing Mr. Mellark's order. People rush to get back to their houses, afraid of what will happen if they're late. I pay little attention to them as I hurry down the street leading towards the bakery, keeping my head down to avoid the snow.
My clothes are wet and my teeth are chattering by the time I reach the backdoor of the bakery. I quickly scan the area, making sure there are no Peacekeepers before I knock twice. Mr. Mellark opens the door and takes the package from my hands, muttering a quick thank you and telling me to hurry and get home. He closes the door before I have time to reply, but I can't be bothered with manners in my haste to finish and get home. With that done, I wander back into the flurry, quickly making my way towards the Seam.
I can see Peacekeepers eyeing me as I make my way home, making sure that I'm following the rules and not skipping out on my duties as a citizen of Panem. I force myself to focus on my footsteps as a trudge through the snow rather than the annoyance I feel towards the Peacekeepers. I'm only a few minutes from home when one grabs my arm roughly, pulling me to a stop.
He holds me in place as he begins questioning me and I strain to hear what he's saying over the howl of the wind.
"What are you still doing out here, girl? You should be home for the Viewing," he bites out gruffly. "Are you trying to start trouble?" He punctuates exactly what he thinks the answer is with another rough shake of my body.
"No, sir, I was just heading home now," I quickly reply with a shake of my head. "I've just been slowed down by the storm."
He makes a sound deep in his throat and I can almost see him sneering at me through his helmet. "Don't make excuses, just get a move on. Before I force you to." He shoves me forward, causing me to lose my balance and almost fall over.
"Yes, sir," I respond, gritting my teeth and trying to stop my eyes from narrowing at the man before me. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk away quickly—eager to avoid anything that will bring me to the attention of Thread, the new head Peacekeeper. They're always so aggressive. I'm already giving them what they want; missing a day of work for their required activity, I think bitterly as I run up the steps to my front door and shove it open. The wind howls again, causing flakes of snow to follow me into the house. I turn quickly and slam the door shut. The house fills with silence as the door blocks the howling of the wind.
I kick off my boots near the door and hang my jacket over the back of a chair in the kitchen before I run to my room to change out of my wet clothes. I pull on a pair of pants and a heavy shirt knowing that I wouldn't be able to go back out anytime soon, and I wander back into the main room of the house to turn on the television. I scan the room for my father, but he is absent. In his room, no doubt. I shake my head and move to sit down on the couch, pausing temporarily when I hear the anthem reverberate throughout the room. I take my seat and stare at the screen, restlessness buzzing under my skin as the anthem and the cheers begin to die down.
I bite down hard on my cheek, fighting the surge of disgust that takes over me as President Snow steps up to the podium. A young boy carrying a wooden box follows him on stage as he begins to address his audience.
"Hello citizens of Panem," he calls from his place in front of the Capitol Building. His voice grates on my ears, causing a tingle of fear to move down my spine. "Before we begin the reading of the card for the highly anticipated Quarter Quell, we must first begin with a reminder of why the Hunger Games have come to be—why they are an intricate, and essential, part of the foundation of our great nation." I scoff and roll my eyes, but a round of screaming bursts out in the Capitol when he utters the words "great nation."
He starts with the history of Panem, reminding us all of the Dark Days and the destruction of District Thirteen, leading to the creation of the Hunger Games. Even though the crowd can barely contain their excitement, I block out most of what he is saying until he mentions the Quell.
"When the laws of the Hunger Games were put in place, our leaders dictated that every twenty-five years, the anniversary of Panem's victory over the rebellion would be marked by a Quarter Quell. The annual Games serve as a reminder of what we've overcome, a retribution for past wrongs. But the Quarter Quell is no ordinary Game." The screaming in the City Circle becomes so loud that Snow has to pause and wait for them to die before he can speak again. I roll my eyes when he does, but I can feel the restlessness swelling inside me.
"It is a celebration of our triumph, to keep fresh the memory of those killed by the rebellion."
I narrow my eyes at the mention of a rebellion, the phrase clearly directed towards the aftermath of lasts year's Games. My mind wanders to the victors, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. From what I'd heard in the Hob before they burnt it to the ground, their games have stirred up unrest among the people. Where, I don't know. It may be nothing more than whispers in the mine, but if its true and it's hard not to suspect it is due to the Peacekeepers cracking down here in Twelve President Snow must be extremely unhappy with District Twelve's newest victors.
Shaking myself from my thoughts, I turn my focus back to the reading as the president continues his speech. "This great nation deserves only the greatest of celebrations. This year marks the seventy-fifth year since the defeat of the rebels. This year, marks the third Quarter Quell."
I suppress another shiver as a feral grin breaks out across his face. But people in the Capitol seem incapable of containing their excitement, their screams coming through the speakers even though the focus remains on the President. I can't help but be repulsed by the joy they derive from this. This really is just another source of entertainment to them.
Snow breaks into an explanation of the First Quarter Quell, when each district had to elect their tributes. Despite having lived with the Games for my entire life, I feel an acute sense of horror and sadness over this particular Game. To keep yourself together after being reaped for the Games is hard enough as it is, but to hold it together knowing that the people of your own district have volunteered you for the slaughter… I can't imagine anything more difficult.
Snow continues with his speech without even a hint of hesitation or remorse. I can tell he is finding some sick sense of enjoyment from the events he is recalling. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."
I snort slightly as he utters the words even though I know there is nothing funny about the situation. I shake my head. Although I never watched those games, I know that that was the year that Haymitch Abernathy—District Twelve's only other living victor—won. Haymitch may be a drunk now, but when I consider what that must have been like, I feel a small sense of understanding. As if having to fight twenty-three other kids for your life wasn't already bad enough.
"Now, we honor our third Quarter Quell," Snow says. The little boy who walked on stage with him steps forward and hands him the box that he had been holding. He pulls the lid off and Snow steps forward to remove the envelope marked with a seventy-five. He steps back up to the podium, removing the card from within the yellow envelope and reading, "In compliance with the second Quarter Quell, each district will once again offer up twice the number of tributes to battle against each other in the arena." The crowd yells shrilly.
And on the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the Panem formed in their defeat stands united, each tribute will be paired with that of another district in a show of goodwill. When half the tributes remain, they will return to the Capital, allowing for the formation of twelve teams. And to show that the Capital and the Districts are equal in effort, the Capital will produce a second arena, for an even playing field where one team will be crowned the Victor of this year's Hunger Games!"
With that final note the screen cuts to Caesar Flickerman, but I can't focus on anything he says. I sit perfectly still for a few minutes, trying to process everything Snow's words. Paired with another district? A permanent alliance? Two arenas? A team will be crowned as the victor.
A team—meaning two people. I shake my head in disbelief. Has this been the plan all along, written on that tiny card for the past seventy-five years? I don't believe it. It's too much of a coincidence. I know he's playing at something. He has to be. This is letting the districts off too easily for anything else to be the case. The announcement of two victors last year undermined Snow's authority. Twenty-four going in and two coming back proved that the Capitol could be played by their own game. It was the driving force behind all his problems now, if the rumors of rebellion from the mines are to be believed. He has every reason to prevent such a thing from happening again unless it's his justification for the repeat of forty-eight tributes. It's like having two Games in one year. I let out a snort at the thought. And a second arena? Returning tributes to the Capital for a moment's reprieve, just enough to make them relax, before thrusting them back into the bloodbath that is the Hunger Games?
Yeah, right. Goodwill my ass.
Still, none of that helps explain the inter-district partnerships. If anything, I would think that the last thing he wants are tributes from different districts working together. The ache in my limbs refuses to be contained. I stand up and begin pacing around the room, trying to figure out what exactly is the point of this year's Quell, because it's certainly not unity. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth as I try to recall past Games. Alliances between different districts never last. How can they when there's only one winner? The Careers are a shining example of this. They work together until the time comes, and then they slaughter each other like it's nothing. My mind flies to the 69th Games, and I immediately feel sick.
No, I won't think about it. I came to terms with it a long time ago. Stop thinking about it.
I repeat the thought in my head over and over again. Just focus on what's happening now; Quarter Quell, forty-eight tributes, inter-district partnerships.
I think back to what had been going through my mind earlier about the alliances between Careers. They all want the glory for themselves, surely Snow must know that… I stop pacing and release my bottom lip from between my teeth. That's exactly it. I can't think of any other possible explanation. He knows that the tributes won't be able to trust their out-of-district partner considering most barely trust those from their own district. Chances are they'll betray their partners before they reach the end, especially if they're from a Career district. I suppose that's the point though, considering that's whom Snow would prefer to win. He gets everything he wants out of this; one victor, forty-seven dead children, and turning on your partner when these Games are meant to show unity among the people of Panem, well, that'll just help to crush the spirit of the districts.
I'm pulled out of my thoughts when my front door suddenly swings, blown open by the storm outside. Snow begins flying into the room as I let out a groan and run to shut the door. Pulling the couch in front of it to keep it secure, I turn to survey the damage. The snow in the room is melting, leaving tiny puddles on the floor. The storm outside is worse than it was before, and I can't help but laugh at the irony of it all as I look out the window. There's no escaping it; snow is everywhere.