Prologue.

"You shoot me, I take him down and we both die," Cato said, a malicious sneer on his face.

Katniss felt a pang of sorrow, seeing through the hateful veneer and into the sad little child underneath. A boy who, no matter how hard he tried, would never win the Games. A boy who had been ruined by the Capitol and its evil.

But her pain disippated when she saw the boy in Cato's chokehold.

Peeta Mellark. The boy with the bread. As she stared into his eyes, desperately trying to come up with a solution before the wolf mutts managed to scale the side of the Cornucopia, she caught sight of his finger.

It was tracing an 'X' onto the back of Cato's hand.

Her bow was already taut and ready to fire. A shot that should have only taken a second felt like it took an eternity. She took careful aim at the back of his hand as tears clouded her vision.

She held her breath and let go of the bowstring.

The bolt of silver flashed, arcing through the air at a deadly speed. Only it was flying an inch too far to the right.

Katniss choked on a scream as she watched the arrowhead slice the side of Peeta's neck and proceed deep into Cato's throat. Both boys' eyes opened wide in pain and terror as their blood spewed from their respective wounds, mixing together and wetting the metal of the Cornucopia.

Cato coughed, spewing blood nearly far enough to spatter Katniss. He fell back, his arm still clasped tightly around Peeta, whose face was already ghostly pale from blood loss.

Katniss couldn't move. She wanted to run to the rim of the giant horn, but what good would it do? Would she simply reach out and pull Peeta back up, safe and sound?

She collapsed. The metal was slick with blood and she slid straight over the side. She felt like a ragdoll, having no control over any part of her body. The only thing she had to remind herself that she was real was the scream that was trapped in her throat and the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.

Her legs hit the ground first, and she felt the bone in her left leg snap under her weight. There wasn't any pain, just numbness. She closed her eyes, waiting for the wolf mutts to close in and tear her to pieces.

Two cannon shots boomed across the field, drowning out the last of the mutt's whines.

There would be no death for Katniss Everdeen. She wouldn't be that lucky.

Claudius Templesmith's voice came on over the arena intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen! We present to you the winner of the 74th annual Hunger Games- Katniss Everdeen!"

They must have made some mistake, she thought as her vision started to fade to black. I just lost. /

Brutus Snow flashed a winning smile to the mirror, his flawlessly lined teeth glinting brightly. The woman who was his stylist was busy putting the finishing touches on his dark auburn hair, setting it perfectly into place.

He noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she worked, no doubt from the memory of his warning to her before she began. "If you allow so much as one curl to stray, I will personally kill you."

She had so far done an immaculate job, covering his few slight wrinkles and keeping his hairline looking thick and healthy. Brutus figured he'd kill her anyway for running the comb through too roughly. It'd been a while since his last execution.

When the stylist had finished, she set down her tools and bowed slightly, avoiding eye contact.

Brutus stared at her for a few seconds before finally saying, "You may go. Thank you for your contributions to this year's Games. You have done well."

The stylist exited briskly, letting out a shaky breath and a small choking sound.

"Merciful Brutus. They're going to think you've gone soft," he said to himself in the mirror, gingerly straightening his tie.

"President Snow, sir? We're ready for you now and we'd like to begin in five minutes," came the voice of a sound technician behind him.

Brutus stood briskly, brushing off his jacket as he turned and followed the sound technician towards his balcony where he would address the citizens of Panem.

Stepping past the curtain separating his evening room from the balcony, he was temporarily blinded by the lights shining across the Capitol square. He hated the bright lights because no matter how hard he prepared himself for them, he always ended up blinded. Weak, vulnerable, if only for a few seconds. The noise he had gotten used to. The deafening boom of thousands upon thousands of Capitol citizens had ceased to shake him up.

He stared to the monitors forming a ring around the square. His image flashed on every single one of them, his enlarged visage staring down at every citizen in attendance. Bringing his hand up, he straightened the mockingjay pin attached to his lapel. Stepping up onto his podium near the edge of the balcony, he brought the three fingers of his right hand to his lips, and then held them straight up, saluting the citizens in the square.

The volume of the riot down below only intensified as they mirrored his salute, hands shooting up all around the square.

He chuckled inwardly at the sight of all of these fools blindly following orders. It amused him to think that it had only been fifty years since the symbol of the mockingjay and the three-fingered salute had been symbols of rebellion, of hope to those who opposed the Capitol. Fifty years since his great-grandfather Coriolanus Snow had made these two symbols mainstays of Capitol and Hunger Games culture. Fifty years since the rebels thought they had a chance of opposing the Capitol by pinning their hopes on a young girl.

Brutus lowered his hand, and the tumult began to calm. He heard the slight whine that meant his mic had been turned on.

"Citizens of Panem, I hope you are all as excited as I am in bringing in the 125th annual Hunger Games!" he boomed across the square.

The applause was deafening.

"There is extra cause for celebration, as this year we are slated for yet another Quarter Quell."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his assistants approach carrying a small wooden box.

"Every twenty-five years, we hold an extra special games to keep fresh the memory of the horrors the Capitol citizens suffered at the hand of rebels during the Dark Days."

The jeers of the crowd had all but ceased at this point, their excitement somewhat stunted by the mention of such heavy matters.

Brutus turned toward the twenty-six plainly dressed children seated to his right. "I'm sure all of us have been slightly confused by the way the Games are being run this year. Traditionally, the Quell is announced weeks before the district's respective Reapings. This year however, the Reapings were held before any information was released. The reason for this is simple: this years Quarter Quell has nothing to do with our courageous tributes, but rather with the Games themselves."

There were murmurs of confusion from the square. The Capitol citizens were unsure of what this meant for their precious Games.

Brutus's assistant bowed next to the podium, holding out the box.

Brutus took it without a word, unlatching the box and running his finger over the tops of the numerous cards that filled it. " The first Quarter Quell: ' On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it.'"

He had memorized the first four Quells, as was his duty. He wanted to get straight to the fifth card, but he knew that these idiots revered tradition above all else. And so, he continued to read the memoirs of the past.

"The second Quarter Quell: 'On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, twice as many tributes were chosen from each district.'

"The third Quarter Quell: 'On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the tributes were Reaped from an existing pool of victors.'

"The fourth Quarter Quell: 'On the hundreth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that without the Capitol, they cannot be whole, each tribute Reaped was given a disability to cope with in the arena.'"

He almost couldn't stop the smile from breaking on his lips. The fourth Quarter Quell had been by far the best, the most exciting to watch. Each tribute had been randomly maimed in some fashion before being whisked off to the arena. He had initally been skeptical, as he assumed the tributes would simply die twice as fast and from natural causes. But the games had gone on that year for four weeks, with the winner being a young man from District 4 who had had his left eye removed.

Snapping out of his reverie, he reached into the box for the fifth card in the series.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the fifth Quarter Quell: 'On the hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that without the protection and provision of the Capitol they would be helpless, this year's tributes will receive no aid at any point in the competition.'"

Brutus raised an eyebrow. He hadn't known what the card had written on it. Only the Head Gamemaker had read it, as per instructions included within the box.

The crowd was silent as well, obviously unsure of what kind of surprise this was supposed to be.

Brutus's assistant timidly approached the podium, setting a sheet of paper in front of the President.

Taking the paper, Brutus looked over what was written, no doubt from the Head Gamemaker. He poured over the document, taking in the information.

After a moment of reading, he looked up to the anxious crowd. "Citizens, I have here a memo from our very own Head Gamemaker, Gaius Crane. To clear up any confusion you may have over this year's Quell, I will now divulge to you a few details about what is to come. Keeping with the theme of the Quell, this year's arena has been untouched by the Game's crew except for the essentials, which, of course, includes the launch platforms, the arena boundaries, and the cameras."

A murmur ran through the crowd in response to the announcement.

"In twenty-four hours, our tributes will be deployed into the arena. They will be given housing in the Training building, but there will be no training area open to them, they will not have private sessions, there will be no stylists or chariot rides, nor will there be mentors, escorts, or sponsors."

The crowd gasped.

"The tributes will have only themselves to rely on from start to finish."

He paused to drink in the information himself. Staring back up towards

the crowd, he let loose his largest smile. Gesturing towards the row of tributes to his side, he said, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Whether or not this year's Quell card had ruined the Games for the Capitol idiots, they still relished hearing the traditional words that began the pageant of the games. An explosion of applause and screaming came from below the balcony. The cameras had centered on the tributes, superimposing them on the screens. They all had the look of fright so common among all tributes, but now there was an element of confusion.

The cameras spun back to Brutus's face, zooming in on his smile and his three-fingered salute.

Looking at the screen, Brutus noticed that just under his left eye, on the ridge of his cheekbone, a blemish on his skin stood out under the bright lights.

The smile fell from his face instantly and he spun on his heel and charged through the curtain. As he walked down the hall, two Peacekeepers marched into formation behind him.

"My stylist. Where is she?"

The Peacekeeper following closest to him spoke. "She left for her home as soon as she was finished here, sir."

Brutus tore his tie from his neck, unbuttoning his suitcoat. "Go to her house, bar the doors... and burn it to the ground."