Author's Note:Very first Fanfiction for the Hunger Games! Very excited. This is a story based off what is known already about the First Quarter Quell. The story is told from two perspectives, Liam's and Elise's (hence the name in the chapter title), and hopefully won't be too boring. It gets much more exciting from the Reaping onwards. As always, anything responsible for this story can be attributed to Suzanne Collins and her wonderful Series, The Hunger Games Trilogy. Thank you very much for your time to read this.
Chapter One – Liam – The First Quarter Quell
The Sand Dart is just below the surface of the water.
I breathe slowly, the cool water level with my waist, catching the painted colors of the sunset. I take a step towards the Sand Dart, like the sandy bottom of the shallows are made of old, creaking floorboards. The slightest movement will ruin everything.
I exhale the air sharply from my lungs, and shoot the spear into the water. As it breaks the surface, the Sand Dart disappears in a murky cloud of sediment. But I feel the spearhead stick firmly into the ground, and when I pull it out of the water, there it is: sleek, about as long as my forearm, and on the end of the spear.
"Well, if looks could kill, you'd get a lot more fish," Isaac's voice says. I look up and see him, his slight body outlined in the sun, his net holding at least twice my catch. Isaac drops his head and squints dramatically, an impersonation I can only assume to be of me. "You'd catch more with a net like this one, though."
"I'm not that bad with a net," I tell Isaac, though when he tilts his head in disagreement, we can't help laughing. "Okay, so I'm not a pro, but I do need practice with spear-fishing before promotion exams come up."
Here in District Four, promotion exams are everything. They're held at the end of every year, and every apprentice fisher is required to take them. The objective is simple: pass your year's exam, and you move up to a different Fishing Sector. That is, you get tougher techniques, more dangerous fish, and much better pay. They're the reason I'm in the same Sector with Isaac, who's sixteen, while I'm eighteen.
I should be ahead of him, but my family and I are still adjusting to District Four. We moved here several years ago from District Three, when my father was given a job offer as head engineer for a string of processing plants in town, and even in the Justice Building. To my father, anything is better than a twelve-hour day on the assembly lines, so we moved. I'm still trying to make up for the lost time when it comes to my skills in fishing, though.
At least the day is finally over. Since Isaac and I are the last ones to leave our Sector for the day, we had back to the prep rooms, a collection of salt-soaked wooden outposts, to clean up. We really should have left earlier, because today is the day President Anderson will announce the First Quarter Quell ever. People have been talking about it for months, some even years. The additional twist will mean the 25th annual Hunger Games will be the most exciting yet. That is, for those who actually enjoy them.
After turning in my day's catch to our Sector administrator, I go to clean the Sand Dart. Most fish in District Four are sent to one of the processing plants for distribution all over to Panem, but the fishermen who work in the Sectors get to take one or two fish home every day, freshly caught. As I scale and wrap up the fish, Isaac hoses down the metal prep tables and makes sure the lockers are in order. We try and keep the conversation away from tonight's announcement, but it still hangs in the air like the smell of fish. I say goodbye to Isaac for the weekend, dress in record time, and leave the outposts practically running. You'd think I was in a race.
Because she's leaning against the wooden railing, has been waiting, her long blonde hair tied up and out of her face. When our eyes meet, she smiles. I extend my arms, as if to embrace her. The girl, Elise, takes the towel she has draped over the rail and throws it to me. Catching it, I tell her, "I wanted a hug, not a towel," but I accept it anyway and rub my hair and face dry after fishing in the shallows all day. We start walking down the street, more into town.
Elise laughs. "Sorry, Liam. The parents aren't too happy with me right now. And if I come home with saltwater on my clothes, they won't buy 'I'm at the beach' anymore."
"I would have washed off in the bathhouse if I had known." I say.
"No don't worry about it! We would miss the Quarter Quell announcement if you did that." Elise tells me. "Since you rinse and repeat so much."
"Hey, the salt doesn't come off by itself. Besides, it's a good thing I stayed late. Look what I got you!" I take out the Sand Dart, wrapped in parchment and wax paper.
"Nothing says 'I love you' like dead fish," Elise says with a grin, but her gratitude is unmistakably sincere.
I can't blame Elise for the towel thing. We've been together for a little over two years now, but we're from completely opposite parts of town. District Four is by far one of the wealthiest Districts in Panem. Though I fish like most every other teenager eligible to, most of their parents have merchant or administrative or business jobs. My dad's work as an engineer hasn't been as lucrative as hoped, which really leads us to scrape by some months.
We're by no means starving, but my family has never been able to afford certain luxuries, or the special Training Academy the Hunger Games Careers attend before they are reaped. Elise's family, on the other hand, is one of the wealthiest in the District, owning the largest processing plant out of the entire market.
"So I take it your parents aren't okay with you watching the announcement at my place?"
Elise turns the package over in her hands and answers, "Yeah, no, they are." Even though she sounds uncertain, I don't say anything further. We just walk to my house, our long shadows trailing behind us.
Our place is on the edge of town, thankfully close to the Fishing Sectors. It's big enough for my parents, my sister and I comfortably. The neighborhood itself is a little crowded, the paths are sandy, with the trees and shrubs casting patterns of shade and sunlight over everything. Despite that a lot of the houses look similar, there's no other neighborhood where the smell of salt and the rustle of the ocean hang in the air.
When we arrive, my mother is stirring fish stew for supper, her long dark tresses hanging down her back. My father hasn't come home from work yet – my guess is he is still back at one of the processing plants, diagnosing one of the many machines with a complicated problem, or handling another claim at the Justice Building. My younger sister, Anna, is home, sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of stew in front of her. Elise and I follow suit and fill our own bowls with rice and the fish stew, thick with tomatoes, onions, and peppers. We sit down at the table and turn on the television.
"Did they bite today?" Anna asks conversationally. Her hair's little lighter than mine, and very straight, so it's pulled back in a loose bun, the image of what my mother when she was young.
"Yeah. I can't wait to get promoted though," I say into my stew. Anna rubs my matted, damp hair, like I am suddenly eight years old again. "It took me forever to get it like this!" I protest. But, just when she's finished laughing, the Anthem of Panem suddenly pierces the conversation, a sound so recognizable we turn our heads immediately to see the Capitol emblem glowing on the screen.
We all move over to the couch in front of the television, Elise holding my hand tightly. When it fades, a Capitol audience materializes as the camera pans around the enormous amphitheatre. From the speakers, the announcer's voice rings out with clarity and measured precision: "Ladies and gentlemen, President Anderson!"
The camera settles into a view of the ornate, polished marble stage in front of the Capitol crowd. President Anderson appears from the side of the stage, and starts walking to the front of the platform, where a gilded podium has been situated for him. On each side, he is flanked by two Peacekeepers, dressed in their white and black-trimmed uniforms. He is about sixty years old, with streaks of gray in his black hair, particularly at the temples. The years he's been serving as President have aged his face much more, however. The audience, a sea of artificially colored, augmented creatures displaying the latest fashion trends in Panem, can hardly contain themselves. They are more excited for the first Quarter Quell than anyone in the entire country.
After all, their favorite game is about to get a new set of rules.
He stares at the audience in front of him for a moment evenly, then directs his hardened, even gaze into the camera lens. President Anderson's voice booms across the audience, and in our living room. "People of Panem, I am addressing you tonight about a milestone in our country's history since the first Hunger Games themselves. The first Quarter Quell, a special version of the Hunger Games to commemorate its twenty-fifth incarnation, will take place this year."
The audience borders on feral. I look at Elise, and she grips my hand tighter. I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to me. "The special addition to this year's Games has been predetermined since their inception," the President continues. Just then, a fifth Peacekeeper arrives, carrying a glossy, dark wooden box. The camera is trained on the chest as President Anderson reveals a thin gold key and unlocks the latch keeping it closed. He then pulls back the lid, revealing rows of ivory-white envelopes neatly lined up in the interior.
Anderson picks the first one, breaks the seal on the envelope, and pulls out a thick piece of parchment from inside. The silence on screen, and in the living room, is so thick, so palpable, that I can feel the faint rushing of Elise's pulse in our interlocked hands. My breath catches in my chest just when President Anderson reads, "For the first Quarter Quell, to remind the Districts they caused the rebellion and violence that led to the Hunger Games, the tributes will be voted on by the people of their own District."
There's deafening applause on screen, but no one's stirred in the living room. Only one clear thought forms in my head then. The best, the oldest, the most dangerous. That is who the Districts will pick to represent them, because the tributes with the greatest chances of winning will be by far the deadliest.
Elise's other hand is on my forearm now, and the words escape from her, thoughts she didn't want me to hear. "Oh, Liam." The words are heavy, weighed down by what I can only assume is fear and worry. It hits me all the same.
President Anderson is still continuing. "There are, however, a few stipulations to be made for these Games. First, under Panem's privacy laws, no citizen of Panem may disclose their own or another's vote during anytime, no exceptions."
"Don't worry." I turn to Elise, her dark blue eyes shining, and squeeze her hand, a ship and its anchor. "There are lots of other girls who train with you in the Academy, so your chances aren't bad at all."
"Second," Anderson says, almost in the background now, "every adult over eighteen must vote, and will have two weeks from today to do so, no exceptions."
"It's not me I'm worried about, Liam," she whispers, voice shaking.
"Third, as the whole point of the Quarter Quell is to have the Districts choose their tributes, no volunteering will be entertained, no exceptions."
I don't have to ask Elise who she's worried about, because she then tells me right then. "I'm worried about you."
As a closing, President Anderson finishes with his standard air of promptness. "The official rules for this year's Quarter Quell can be found in your District's Justice Building. I know this year's Hunger Games will be the best yet. Good night, and may the odds be ever in your favor."