It is very uncommon, some would say utterly unattainable, for anyone to live in a district different from that which they were born – to say nothing of living in the Capitol. Even victors of the hunger games return to their district of origin regardless of their new exalted status or how desolate and dirty their district might be. If you are born in district ten or seven or twelve you die there.
If you join the peacekeepers and leave district two – a change in location only possible with one district and with one job – you retire out after twenty years to die back in the mountains. After all, who would dare to kill a peacekeeper and how many really succumb to "accidents?" In Panem you eat, breathe, suffer, live and die in just one world, unless you are so unlucky as to die in the arena.
If you are born in the districts it is practically unthinkable you would ever change to live a 'real' life in the Capitol. But not impossible.
Cinna Bell comes into life in December, already the strong hold of winter in district eight. Two siblings precede him in life and another comes three years after, Cinna earning special distinction as the only boy.
Like most that live in district eight, Cinna's parents work in the factories – long hours, loud machinery turning eighteen hours a day, walls that only keep out the wind not the cold and fabrics made for thousands of people across Panem to protect them from the ravages of their own climates. They make enough money to eat but not enough to be full. Cinna's parents save when able and somehow through the years, though they learn what it feels like to always be a bit hungry, they never starve.
When Terra Mater was a child she dreamed of blue skies and wished to be a pilot. When Samuel Bell was a child he dreamed of endless woods and wished to be a music teacher. As adults they work in the factories and wish instead for children who have dreams.
Cinna's eldest sister, Clasta, escapes the factories by reading enough and retaining enough to slot a place as a math teacher at eighteen. (When it comes to factory work and fabric there is many a calculation needed to asses the right amount of yards, of thread, or calibration of the machines so this is no small feat). She fills the evening hours doing tutoring for the higher echelon of district eight: the governor's children and the high designer brats.
"Those kids," she tells Cinna as he watches her mend black buttons on his good white shirt, "they learn how to match colors but not to sew. They can tell you black and red strike the eye well but they couldn't sew on this button."
Cinna twists one finished button between two fingers and only raises his eyebrows, already the quiet, thinking child his teachers will puzzle over for years. Clasta raises both her eyebrows back and cocks her head.
"You would be surprised at those who balk at picking up a simple needle."
To Cinna, for who a needle and thread are the most familiar of tools, the revelation certainly is.
Cinna's second oldest sister works in the factory like their parents before her – long hours and nothing much to show but hands stained different shades of dye forever and money to keep breathing on.
He remembers her green eyes which match his and how he always knew when the week's dye had been red because, for some reason, it always showed up best against her dark skin.
Years later, when his life has become very very different, Cinna recalls how little he saw and how little he knew of her. Despite his trials – despite the death – Cinna believes Cherra to be the real tragedy of their family, the one with no life at all.
At first, like all children reaching age eleven or twelve, Cinna spends his hours in school then goes for a shift at the factory. He starts at the jean factory, sturdy clothing meant for the districts where the inhabitants work outside or in the dark and dirt like district seven or district eleven. However, when Cinna's finer needle working and good eye for detail are discovered he transfers up to embroidery. At fourteen he starts bringing in more money than his parents (though they retain real little wealth due to medical bills for their father who suffers from diabetes).
"Such an eye!" says his new bosses.
"The needle moves like it's just one of his fingers," Clasta boasts, "no one finer, I mean it!"
"Maybe he could even be a designer some day?" his mother hopes.
Cinna cares little yet for aspirations of greatness; holding a needle relaxes him, following intricate patterns focuses his mind and he never stops until the lines and curves flow perfectly into the shape they should be. He sees without the guiding lines; he knows just where the red should follow the purple and how, when they meet the blue, an ocean he has never seen in life should form over a dress.
When asked why he tries so hard for perfection when he still only works on the simplest of clothing to be sent to places not the Capitol, he only says: "It makes me happy."
The youngest Bell, as many youngest children are, is the favorite and the favored of the whole Bell family; dearest Cora.
Cora always smiles; Cora always laughs; Cora rarely cries and never yells in anger. Cora knows when you are sad. She brings cookies wrapped in scraps of blue fabric to her sisters and stolen silver thread to her brother. Cora reads old poems to her mother and builds small castles out of cards for their father. Cora dances to the sound of her family breathing at night and every one of them catches her in the act, twirling around their kitchen table.
None of them resent her for her beauty – her heart shaped face and deep chocolate eyes, flecked with gold like her brother's eyes are. They love her for her steady voice which matches their name and questions always aching to learn more of the world. She watches with large owl eyes and knows just when to comfort or when to leave. They love her because even when she struggles – chemistry lessons on color mixing or toppling her bicycle – or when she fails – real sewing much harder for her than expected for anyone from district eight – she never stops trying again and again.
It is Cora each one of them loves best of all and it is Cora who they lose first.
Their house sits pressed beside two others exactly like it, gray and dull with the stain of factory smog forever on its walls. The house stands taller than it sits wide, two rooms on the first floor then only one each as the stairs at the back left of the house snake upwards three more flights, each floor smaller than the last like a triangle. Their parents take up the second floor along with the house's only bathroom behind a partition; then Clasta and Cherra on the third and Cinna and Cora up in the attic. Inside the walls are white streaked with every color one could imagine – yellow hand prints following the stairs up from when Cherra first started working with dyes and loved leaving a mark of her new trade; blues all through their parent's bedroom from their father in the jean factory where Cinna began; green and purple in the main room on the first floor where the whole family makes the holiday baskets together for festival days in the spring; gold trails in the walls of Cinna and Cora's room because they share a favorite color. The kitchen looks like a veritable painter's palette from years of fingers missed in washing, home dye jobs to change an old good dress into a new good dress or on the side work to bring in more money. At four years old Cora calls it the 'Rainbow Room' and the name sticks.
Though the cracks in the walls let in the cold and one miss step on the stairs sends you tumbling all the way to the bottom with more bruises than not, Cinna wouldn't trade their house for anything. He steps inside and every color creates a parade of ideas in his head. He sees a sweep of off white and imagines a suit for a wealthy Capitol citizen – egg shell shoulders with a dusty pattern leading down the sleeves into white cuffs and silver gloves, flecks of silver through the front lapels as the white turns purer down and down until the pants look like clear water, just a hint of blue making the wearer into a cloudy day made up only of the most artistic clouds and rain.
Cinna sketches such ideas in his free time.
Most people in his district only work in the factories – they fill one cog in a machine packing finished products into boxes or feeding cloth into dangerous rolling metal or leading thread into holes. Even those who do the finer work of patterns on fabric merely follow the instructions laid out in mindless sweeps of their needles. Only a few people actually design clothing and then usually for a functional purpose. Most of the articles of clothing which district eight produces were thought up long ago to fit for the job the wearer does and never change.
It is only in the Capitol where Cinna sees visions such as his own take shape when he watches the parades every Hunger Games. He dislikes the way so many outfits he sees look like curtains pinned by wire or ship sails trying to make themselves into dresses. The colors match his mind but often the follow through turns only into lunacy. Cinna sees clothing as portraits, as paintings; an outfit should say something, be something.
Cora often peers over his shoulder when he sketches. "I see blue jay." She'll try to guess what each outfit represents. "Or is it a seagull?"
"You've never really seen a seagull."
"Well, neither have you."
He rolls over on his bed so Cora perches back on her heels beside his knees. He holds up his small sketch pad between them and points to the corners on the shoulders of this particular pencil line dress (labels for colors and types of fabric in the margins).
"It's a peacock. On the edges here you'd use the glisten fabric we make the Capitol, shifting from blue to green when the person moves." He moves his finger down the length of the dress. "See, the circles at the bottom and how it bunches." He smiles and lays the pad on his chest. "Should look like feathers."
"If it were made."
Cinna's smile diminishes slightly and he nods. "If."
Cora shrugs once, smile on her face like a bird or a butterfly. "It should be."
Cora works after school with their sister Cherra in the dye factory. While Cherra works on the floor mixing dyes and drying fabric, Cora spends the later afternoon hours grinding power from the raw materials they get from the mines in the north and the fields way at the southern dip of their district as well as district eleven. (Cinna has never been to southern district eight, in fact most who think of his district only know about the urban factory north. However, in the south where the weather is a little warmer, fields surround the factories instead of hard dirt and concrete, growing plants to make all manner of colors like indigo or pink or green; though this only makes up a small portion of the district). Unlike Cherra, Cora's hands do not come home stained. However she always seems to have a tint of whatever color she ground that day clinging to her clothes. When she moves the dust floats behind her swirling like magic seeping from her soul.
When they have time, no school or work, and the winter has yet to become too severe, Cinna and Cora walk the gray streets together. Despite the constant smoke from the factories, Cinna likes walking outdoors. The chill to the air feels more appropriate than inside and bothers him less; after all it should be cold outside in winter.
"I say taffy today!"
In December Cinna and Cora take at least one walk which turns into their 'sweets' day. They never really plan it but it always happens. They start off just walking – a snowball for good measure when one of them finds an opening. Then their way eventually leads into the heart of town and down Gooseberry Row where the specialty shops, usually only frequented by those with money to spare, line the sidewalk. They pick from the bakery or the sweet ice parlor or the ice cream shop or, as often happens, the taffy pull.
"You always say taffy," Cinna chides, grabbing Cora's gloved hand to warm his own.
Cinna prefers cupcakes but Cora likes taffy.
"Not always, just mostly."
Cora usually wins.
They buy taffy fresh from the pull, though fresh is still a bit hard in this area but they know no different. Cora goes for lime every time though Cinna attempts to persuade her into trying something different.
"Vanilla?"
"Hmm…"
Three machines which look like hands spin in the window winding taffy back and forth as they watch.
"Maybe peach?"
"That's a silly flavor for taffy."
"What about lemon then? That's close to lime."
She grins at him. "Now that's a flavor!"
Cinna only chuckles, buying chocolate for him and lime for her.
They walk every street in town together, up and down rounding each corner to walk up again. They trace the city and eat their taffy. Some days they talk about seam lines and shoe patterns and purple versus indigo or Cora talks about birds while Cinna only listens. Often Cora likes to climb up the ladder of the shoe supply shop to the roof, Cinna following if only to ensure she doesn't fall, to watch the shift change of the cotton factory. Cinna keeps watch lest any Peacekeepers catch them "trespassing." Cora tries to imagine what each person thinks as they leave and narrates their inner monologue to Cinna. She comes up with an endless stream of jokes and banal thoughts turned to humor. He likes to listen to her talk just as she likes to watch him design.
In school Cinna sits in the back. He doesn't actually talk very often. He wouldn't consider himself quiet only he doesn't chatter. He prefers to draw to express himself – tall trees and starry skies or the mountains of the Capitol. He will doodle knee high boots layered with intricate circles during his math class and by the time class ends the outfit looks like a supernova but his geometry notes are lacking.
When he feels happy the skirts come out in red pencil, rose petal blouses with lady bug hats.
"Let me guess," Clasta asks as she spies the yellow lines of a sheer head scarf on his page, "you talked with Blake again today at lunch?"
Cinna humphs and shifts his head down on his arm to hide his wide, embarrassed smile.
When his suits become coal black, gray plaid patches and markings of 'heavy fabric' in the margins even the elusive Cherra knows to ask. "What's wrong? Was it the history test?"
As he gets older and more daring, Cinna tries to put his designs into practice; scraps from work his mother brings home, old clothes with too many holes repurposed, botched dye work from Cherra – whatever Cinna lays flat on a table and cuts into shape. His early projects turn into gloves and hats, items small enough to fit with the pieces he has to work with. Then his family starts to find larger scraps, sneak out left over chunks from yard cut offs, buy rolls of cloth marked down due to defects; they feed his talent because the Bell family helps its own.
"Someone has to make us look like the royalty we are," his mother half jokes as she presents him with a bolt of silver cloth for his fourteenth birthday.
"I expect proper gloves for Christmas," his father says.
Cinna smiles and tilts his head. "Solid silver or just accents?"
Cinna spends four days cutting and sewing a skirt for Clasta. The fabric is half cotton, meant to be dyed purple but the dye mixed with too much red and came out more muddy than purple so Cherra scooped it up. The skirt hangs to Clasta's knees, loose and jagged at the bottom so it ripples thin and light like turkey feathers with wind then changes to thick fox fur when still.
She says, "Sometimes I think the clothes you make really will come to life!"
Cora pages through his sketch book and puts tiny tick marks next to the ones she likes best.
Cinna designs pants which appear to drip like water when the wearer moves. He uses cotton and polyester and polytwillchem and it works though none of them go anywhere so fine to show such a creation off. Cinna sews patches of red and yellow together with gold thread so when the finished product stretches and forms into a hat, Cherra really has a halo. Both creations end up selling at the tri-yearly Free Design market spreading whispers of Cinna's talent beyond their own factory town.
For Cora's thirteenth birthday Cinna makes her a dress. It is his best creation up until then – certainly his most time consuming, expensive and difficult – and it is the piece of clothing which will change his life forever.
Cora wears it to that year's reaping.
The morning of the reaping Cinna's mother climbs the stairs to their room. She sits at the end of Cora's bed and smiles at them both.
"Big day."
Cora and Cinna, still in their sleep wear, only nod.
"Don't be worried because I'll be watching you both." Cinna knows his mother's gaze cannot actually protect him from the fate of that dreaded glass ball but it eases his nerves regardless.
"Clasta and Cherra have made you breakfast," a special treat as usually they all take cold oatmeal in bowls on their way out the door, "even eggs for you, Cora."
Cora smiles, "Is there jam?"
"Gross," Cinna mutters.
His mother shoots him a 'hush' look then nods to Cora. "I hope you're in the mood for raspberry."
Cora gasps and Cinna smiles a little. His mother turns her eyes back to him. Cinna tilts his head and only nods; he won't be afraid.
"Come on." She pats the sheet of Cora's bed and stands. "Get dressed, wear something nice but warm."
Cinna picks his best suit, a plain black thing which has only needed mending once and one of the two he owns. Cora chooses the dress Cinna made.
The predominant color of the dress is red and at first glance that is all one sees – a red dress just to the knee with long sleeves and a bateau neckline. However, when she turns a gold stripe becomes visible running down the back from her left shoulder to bottom right wisp of skirt starting narrow at the top and widening out to about twelve inches across at the bottom. In the center of the stripe, at the small of her back, a large layer bow of gold and red draws the eye, glittering like a jewel. It is then the viewer realizes the gold embellishments actually pepper the entire dress tracing around like a maze of electric current so the red changes to wine and then rose and maroon like lava boiling all over her. The top of the dress hugs her tightly, the sleeves forming diamond shapes at the ends over her wrists, then fans out around her hips so it swishes and curves with movement. The dress appears to be alive with each step Cora takes and one cannot help but stare with awe.
Cinna smiles with a touch of pride as Cora puts the dress on, her hair left loose at her shoulders.
She sees him looking and smiles back. "I may as well be dressed fabulously at this horrible thing, right? Plus I can tell everyone my brother is the best designer there is." She stops and waves a dismissive hand, "Well, designer without the title."
Cinna snorts quietly. "So a Peacekeeper can come interrogate us about where I got all that fabric and thread?"
Cora shakes her head. "Did you steal any of it?"
Cinna shrugs. "Maybe."
"I'll cover for you."
Cinna frowns and tries to think if anything on that dress technically is stolen. Does cast off fabric actually count as stolen?
Cora bops him on the nose abruptly and he blinks back to reality. "Hey!"
"Don't worry; no one is going to ask anyway." She swallows once and does a very good job of trying to appear unconcerned. "They're all going to be thinking about other things."
Cinna sighs lightly and nods. "Yes, they are."
Cinna is sixteen years old now; he's stood through four reapings with three more to go.
He remembers Clasta's first reaping though he was only seven at the time. It sticks in his memory if only because it was the first reaping which had a direct effect on their household. At seven he did not quite understand the gravity of the day. They all ate hot sausages for breakfast and Clasta dressed up so beautifully, a yellow dress which perfectly complemented the deep brown of her skin. Cinna knew from school the history of the games and had watched the games on public screens every year since he was four but always felt detached, a distant game that wasn't real. When Patricia Malls' name rang out over the crowd Cinna's mother sighed deeply with relief. Cinna saw his parents clasp hands, unshed tears in their eyes. Cinna understood with a smack that from then on every year death might visit their home.
Cinna knows there are more reapings behind him than there are ahead but it only takes one time for his name to be read and just one time for him to leave home forever.
A quick hot breakfast, hugs for luck and then the two of them join the flood of children. When they reach the center of town, a large open pavilion able to fit at least 500 people, Cinna gives Cora's hand a squeeze just before they separate into girls and boys. They line up by age, Cinna lucky enough to get Blake Speed to his right and his friend Thomas Pike to his left. Cinna smiles for just a moment then turns his eyes to the dais.
This year their town has earned the distinction of having the selection in person instead of over the monitors. Due to the size of the district, the location of the actual selection changes each year. Their escort Benedict Pepper climbs the stage, his hair canary yellow this year and wearing a cape of blue stopping half way down his back, stiff and shaped like a sail frozen mid wave. Ridiculous.
"Happy 66th Hunger Games, my dear district eight!" He cries out through the microphone. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
The governor, her husband, and their five past tributes sit behind Benedict. Cinna's favorite victor is old Barnes, nearly seventy now. Cinna's mother told him the story once about how Barnes won his year when he was fifteen by making himself a camouflage tent out of vines so no one could find him, not even the cameras, until they were down to the final seven. Then he killed the other six in one swoop by poisoning the water supply.
"Today we choose our two tributes!" Benedict continues. "Who will have the lucky honor?" He grins and steps to the right over to the girl's bowl. "And our one lucky lady this year –" he slips his hand into the bowl, pulls out a small square of paper then reads out, "Cora Bell!"
Cinna blinks. He must have heard wrong.
"What did he say?" Cinna mummers.
"Cinna…" Thomas says quietly.
"What did he say?" Cinna repeats. "What did he…" Cinna trails off as Cora steps out of the crowd.
The Peacekeepers form a box around her and march her forward.
Cinna turns his head left and right in shock. No. This can't be right. Benedict must have chosen wrong. This has to be wrong!
He wants to scream, 'No! You can't!' but his throat has closed. Cherra is nineteen now, Clasta twenty-one; there is no one who can volunteer for Cora, no one to sacrifice in her place.
The human cage reaches the steps and makes an opening for Cora to step up.
'I should volunteer,' Cinna thinks, 'I should save her!'
But he can't; he's a boy.
Suddenly, Blake grabs Cinna's hand. Cinna whips his head around in surprise. Cinna shakes his head, confused then Blake flicks his eyes down and Cinna notices how hard his legs are shaking. He has never felt more terrified.
"We have our girl," Benedict grins and Cinna wants to slap him. "Now, our boy!" He picks a name. "Samuel Lawson!"
Someone screams far back in the stands but Cinna pays no attention as they usher up the boy and Benedict crows congratulations. He fixes his eyes on Cora.
Cora stands absolutely still in her lava dress, her fingers straight lines down – stiff and unnatural. Only her eyes move, scanning the crowd. He sees them stop for a moment on someone, probably their parents, far back. Then she smiles – bight as a summer sun – and nods reassuring, happy even. After a moment she looks away and finds him among the mass. Though the smile remains and her body does not move, he sees it painted on her face where most others would miss it: fear.
The next week is hell – no other word could fit
["You'll get a room to yourself for a while, Cinna."
He shakes his head. "I don't want a room to myself."
Cora sniffs, her eyes looking everywhere but him and the tears make steady, silent paths down her cheeks. Cinna holds her hand and lets the silence stretch. There is nothing he could say.
"I don't want to die," she whispers, before the Peacekeepers bang on the door and drag him away.]
They go to work and school like ghosts, seeing nothing but Cora behind their eyes. They watch her – their darling little once forced to dance – on screens tall as their house. Every day Capitol programs replay the reaping – Cora smiling like it's truth; The parade through the capitol – Cora and the boy dressed up like patchwork dolls screaming 'textiles' in the most obvious way; Rolling stats on the tributes, first round ratings merely off appearance and bets on who will win – Cora near the bottom of most predications; Preview tid bits of the arena – open fields which seem to be spotted with islands of tree clusters; The day of the private judging and scores – Cora with a five. (Cinna has no idea what she may have had to show). One farce after another in a wild swirl. Then the interviews.
As the girl from district eight, Cora's interview falls near the middle of that evening's show. They crowd around the TV at home (Thomas' family lets them borrow theirs), unable to eat dinner, just holding who's hand is closest. Clasta keeps one arm around their mother's shoulders while their father paces back and forth behind their chairs.
"At least we can see her…" Cherra murmurs.
Cinna keeps his eyes locked on the screen. He imagines he could sew a cape, clear to the eye and light, cool fabric. Once worn Cora would disappear, invisible and safe. His fingers twitch and he thinks of sewing a shield – Kevlar, Peacekeeper demi armor, or flexible steel. He wants to cover her up in cloth to protect her from harm, a soft rainbow blanket which calls her home.
"Happy hunger games!" Caesar Flickerman cries.
Cinna's father stops pacing and they all perk up as the girl from district one takes the stage.
"I hope she's all right," Clasta says suddenly griping Cinna's hand.
"They're not in the area," Cherra hisses.
"Not yet," Clasta whispers.
Cinna says nothing and squeezes both his sister's hands.
The condemned breeze by in all manner of moods. Rose from district two bounces in her seat with eagerness; Brandon from district six struggles to control the quake of his voice. Though fear over powers most of his emotions, Cinna admires some of the clothing through the rounds of questions; a tight silver dress covered in flickering gems on Elise from district five (he wonders if they're electrified or if that's just the type of stone) distracts him for a moment.
Then, "Cora Bell of district eight," Caesar announces with glee.
She steps on stage and the rest of the family gasps in surprise all around Cinna. Hair on top of her head laced with golden flowers and golden sandals twisting up her calves, Cora wears the red dress Cinna made her.
"Welcome, Cora."
"Hello, Caesar, having a good time?"
He laughs, "aren't I the one asking those questions?"
"Well, you're working so hard and you have to be up here the whole time," she smiles, big and pleasant and sympathetic, "I just hope it's not too tiring for you!"
The crowd at the Capitol 'aws' and laughs at once, charmed.
"Well, thank you for asking. I'm wonderful."
She smiles and nods, apparently delighted.
"Now, Cora," Caesar continues, "this is a very familiar dress you have on."
Cora nods and Cinna see a slight change of her smile from the plastered fakery to something real. "Yes."
"This was the dress you wore to the reaping." He waves his hand up and down over her form. "And such a beautiful dress, you'd have thought it was from here in the Capitol!"
"It's not," Cora explains, "in fact my brother, Cinna, made it for me for my birthday."
The crowd makes 'oos' and 'ahs' of surprise.
Caesar gasps along with them. "That is a surprise! I bet your stylist wasn't too pleased about that."
The camera flashes to a thin woman with purple skin who is Cora's stylist. She only shakes her head at the screen and makes a put upon expression.
Cora does not laugh or simper or apologize. She looks at the camera back on her and says, "I told her I wouldn't wear anything else to my interview; that nothing she could make me would be as beautiful or perfect for me then what my brother had already made."
The crowd titters with laughter, half amused by her presumption and half impressed by her boldness, but still completely charmed by this young, confident tribute. Caesar continues, asking her about her training score and her impressions of the Capitol. The rest passes in a blur because Cinna realizes he has a least done one thing to help his sister. Though he couldn't sew her a cloak of invisibility or a shield of steel, he has given her a gown of scarlet to face the blood thirsty crowds of the capitol with pride and confidence. Though she sits miles and miles away out of his reach and away from those who would keep her safe, she at least wears Cinna's arms around her in fabric, protection for her heart.
The night before the tributes will be released into the arena, Cinna sleeps downstairs with Cherra and Clasta. He can hardly bear the sight of Cora's empty bed and being alone is just too much. The three of them lie in the dark, Cinna curled up with Clasta though he's far too old and the bed is too small. None of that matters right now. Though the room remains silent for a long time Cinna knows none of them sleep.
"Do you think…" Cinna knows he should not put voice to his whirling thoughts, to his crazy ideas of escape or rescue or the impossible – that she could win.
"Shh," Clasta rubs her hand over his face so his eyes close, "try to think of all the good times like her face on her birthday when you gave her that dress. Don't think about tomorrow."
Cinna nods against the pillow, remembering Cora's check marks in his sketchbook upstairs. He wishes he'd found a way to make every single outfit for her.
"We're never going to see her again," Cherra whispers.
"Cherra!" Clasta snaps.
"Well… one more time."
Clasta makes a pained noise and none of them speak again until morning.
The next day they join the crowds on empty stomachs in the pavilion. Their family and the Lawson's earn special seats up front to watch the horror unfold. President Snow makes his usual speech and then the tributes rise up into the yellow fields of the new arena circled around the cornucopia.
Everything feels suddenly sharp and real.
Cinna scans the scene for anything that could help Cora, as if he could speak directly into her brain from afar if he notices anything. On the ground lie a number of back packs no doubt holding food and other survival supplies. However, by way of weapons only one type litter the ground – short and thick, ones as long as his sister is tall, some bronze, some obviously steel, one that even looks like gold, some on chains and others with points on both ends – all of them maces, only cruel, barbaric maces.
"Oh my god," Cinna's father whispers.
Then the gamekeeper's voice booms out the count down, "10, 9, 8 –"
Cinna's eyes dart across the screen looking for Cora among the frozen children.
"6, 5, 4 –"
He sees her to the left of the cornucopia's opening, the male tribute from district twelve to her left and the female tribute from district six to her right. She is not smiling anymore.
"2, 1!"
The screen fractures into four pieces the moment the tributes move to better cover the field and not miss a moment of action. Clasta grabs his hand like a vice as Cora vaults off her circle and toward the nearest backpack. The boy from ten, Rupert is his name, gets to a mace first and swings for her head. Cora ducks just in time, rolling across the grass away from him.
"Oh, yes," Cherra squeaks and clenches her fists together against her mouth.
Rupert lunges for her again, swinging the mace toward her mid section on the ground but a flash of metal catches him in the side of the head, blood splashing over Cora's face, and he falls. They see Samuel Lawson standing over her with an expression half triumph and half surprise. She grins at him and jumps up, the strap of a backpack now in her hand.
"Thank –"
Before she can finish two words Samuel is tackled to the ground by another boy – Cinna can't tell who. He wrenches Samuel's arm holding the mace around to violently smash it into Samuel's face again and again.
"No!" Samuel's mother screams just as his father makes an almost inhuman moan of despair.
Cora jumps away and starts to run when a mace catches her in the ankle. Cora falls onto her face, backpack rolling away and tries to drag herself as quickly as possible out of harm's way. The holder of the mace is Crystal from district one and she laughs as Cora crawls.
"Nice try, little one!"
Cora rolls and starts to sit up, hands ready to defend herself then Crystal swings the mace in a large arc. The mace slips right past Cora's hands and slams into the side of her head. Bone crunches and blood pours out of Cora's nose and ears. She groans and collapses backward, body trembling with shock. Her eyes roll back, still half alive, gasping then Crystal smashes the mace down into Cora's chest, ribs crushing, and Cora's body stops moving.
The 66th Hunger Games last for two weeks and four days, relatively short by game standards. Thirteen die the first day at the Cornucopia. The fields turn out to be riddled with poisonous snakes forcing most to hide in the tree groves in closer proximity, possibly why so many die so quickly.
(Crystal Reveer of district one makes it to the final five but no further. Champ of district two finally breaks the Career alliance and jumps from a tree to smash his mace into her back; twice more into her eyes for maximum blood shed. Cinna makes no attempt to squash the feeling of satisfaction from her death.)
The deaths are all bloody and gruesome, tributes left gasping with half crushed skulls or mangled holes in their chests, slowly bleeding to death unable to move or ease their pain. For the happy Capitol citizens, one surprise comes from the fourteen year old female tribute of district eleven, Zara, who lasts until the final four by staying out in the fields. She avoided the snakes due to her knowledge of snake poison from her swampy home deep in the south of Panem.
The final battle comes between the two tributes from district four, Sasha Hadwick and Maxwell Holmes. The ensuing carnage does not disappoint when the two smash head long into each other, breaking fingers and forearms, Sasha's ankle and Maxwell's shoulder, blood covering both their clothes. Until Sasha wraps her chain mace around Maxwell's knees bringing him to the ground. She ends up stomping on his chest three times with her own boots so he gasps and screams until she ends it all with a final swing of her mace into his nose so hard she punctures through his skull.
Before the victor interview, the Capitol crowds still cheering, Clasta says, "maybe its better she died quickly."
The next day the Capitol people come for him.
8:00 AM sharp fists pound against their front door. Their mother makes it to the door first from the kitchen, Clasta and his father right behind. Cherra had already left at six for the early factory shift. They open the door just as Cinna reaches the bottom step of the stairs. Two Peacekeepers flank a man with glossy, unnatural red hair in the doorway.
"Bell?" He says, the Capitol's high tilt to his voice as if the hair didn't already give him away.
Cinna sees his mother's hand grip harder on the door frame. "Yes? Is this…" she swallows so that even Cinna can hear. "Is this about Cora?"
"No, ma'am," one of the Peacekeepers answers.
"This is about your son," the red haired man picks up, "Cinna Bell."
All three turn and look at Cinna. Cinna folds his hands behind his back and walks from the kitchen toward the door. The man and the Peacekeepers step inside, half pushing his mother into the wall as they do so. Cinna sees his father wants to protest, ready to throw them out if it wouldn't get him shot.
"If you please," the man says to Cinna's family.
They stare at him in confusion then one of the Peacekeepers raises a hand and points to the other room. Clasta opens her mouth but their father grips her arm and the three of them exit the room. Cinna feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up but he says nothing.
"Dear Cinna." The man steps forward and holds out his hand. "I am Septimus Moran."
Cinna shakes his hand but still says nothing. He notices the odd points on Septimus' jacket at the shoulders and elbows then on his pants at the hips. It makes him appear almost like a porcupine what with his mustache, thick in the middle and twisting into points at the ends. He smiles wide to show a mouth full of bright white teeth, each one oddly inscribed with an SM.
"I am here, Cinna," he goes on after Cinna does not reply, "because I wish to nurture your talent."
Cinna tilts his head. "My talent?"
"The dress you made for that sweet sister of yours, Cora."
Cinna hears a dish hit the floor in the kitchen. His eyes tick to the left behind him then back to Septimus. Septimus taps the tips of his fingers together twice and smile.
"I want to bring you to the Capitol, my boy, where you can put your designs to good use!"
"No!" Clasta suddenly runs out of the kitchen. "You can't be serious!"
One of the Peacekeepers slides in between her and where Cinna stands. His mother and father come out behind Clasta, hands on her shoulders.
"You want to take our son?" His mother snaps. "To the Capitol? He's not a tribute!"
"Mrs. Bell…" one Peacekeeper begins.
"What are you going to do with him?" His father asks. "No one from the districts lives in the Capitol! Why do you want him?"
"Sir!"
Septimus pulls an envelope from his jacket. "Special dispensation from the President's council to nurture this boy's special gift."
"What?" Cinna's mother gasps.
"That is such crap!" Clasta yells, harsh and angry as Cinna has never seen her before.
One Peacekeeper grabs her arm. "Calm yourself!"
"You can't take my brother!" Clasta snaps again, yanking her arm away.
Septimus' smile does not falter as he turns only at the waist to flash it toward them. "It's only for a little while!"
The three of them start shouting again, voices over lapping as the Peacekeepers try to calm them down with soft words morphing into threats. It all becomes background to Cinna because Septimus turns to stare at him again. They look eye to eye, cold dread down Cinna's spine, because he knows by the look on this man's face that Cinna is not coming home again.