Prologue

The air in the town square is so quiet that had a fly buzzed by, the sound of its wings could have been heard. Sundial Square, also recognized as the commercial hub of District 3, is only so eerie at one time of the year: Reaping Day.

The usual stalls that cluttered the corners of the Square are all cleared up, as if they never existed, and the crowds of civilians who gathered at the hub daily for various reasons are present, but instead of shouting out indignant bargains and criticizing the rising prices, they are all standing in neat divisions according to gender and age, about to be sorted through in order to find the pair of unfortunate people who will be participating in the most gruesome, yet mandatory practice in recent history: The Hunger Games.

However, instead of candidates being chosen from the teenage category, ranging from the ages 12 to 18, a specific group of citizens stand to the side, apart from everyone else. These are the Victors of District 3 through the ages; every age group is present, but not many of them to represent their time. A few elderly civilians, a few middle aged people, and then, there is the group that I am part of: the youth that is heading directly into midlife; the ones in their late twenties and early thirties. There are only 2 of us; myself, and a man a few years older, Damien Padatryst. This group always stands aside; we are the victors; we survived the Hunger Games, and so, according to regular rules, should be excused from any form of election into the same event again. However, this year, things are different.

The candidates are being chosen from the victors of years past, and not only a male and a female, but two of each, for it is the third Quarter Quell, a happening which calls for a different set of custom abiding. Acide Basement, our representative from the Capitol, stands at the podium, facing the rest of us district citizens with an air of cultured excitement and indifference at the same time. "Welcome, to the Reaping of the 75th Annual Hunger Games!" His naturally energetic voice bounds off the building walls, sounding louder than it should've as the people stood solemn and silent. "We will start, as always, with the wonderful history of our nation, Panem."

Following the announcement, an ancient reel begins to play on an adjacent wall, recalling the rebellion that took place 75 years ago, and the origin of The Hunger Games. I have seen this clip, as has every other fellow citizen, all my life, and so, I let my mind wander over the bizarre pattern about to be followed next.

2 Quarter Quells have come to pass; the 25th, and the 50th. In both, the rules have been different. The themes are decided before hand by the president and his advisors. In the 25th, the people were given the task to vote in their tributes. In the 50th, twice the number of participants were chosen. Every theme has been specifically designed to be more brutal than the average games, and the 75th are no different. It is this time, that it has been decided that the contestants are not to be taken from the teenagers, but from the victors. This means that the pool of names is small, and the chance to be chosen is narrowed down to not more than 12 people; people who had, after winning their specific games, taken relief in the fact that they would not be associated with them anymore.

President Snow and his gamekeepers think that we all are daft; he thinks that we do not know that the only reason we are being made to relive our greatest nightmares is because of the two victors of the last games: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the Star-crossed lovers of District 12. To me, it is obvious that these two are not in love— the boy might be, but the girl sure isn't— they are just headstrong teenagers who have, due to their ignorance and carelessness, been pulled into something far more complex than they can comprehend.

I, for one, am with them.

Panem is becoming restless.

The Victory Tour only served to fuel the burning hearts of the civilians of the nation. Riots are shaking the country slowly but surely: District 11 and District 8 have begun to show their true colours, but Districts 1 and 2 are still quite vehemently supporting the Capitol. District 3 is still, thankfully, neutral, but I know that everyone here is just waiting for another district to open up in full blown rebellion first, so that they can follow suit and back them up against the Capitol.

The short clip ends and Acide starts speaking; his voice emotional as always after viewing the video, and breaks my train of thought, effectively bringing me back to the present. "As you all know," he continues, flashing a smile towards the audience as he has been trained to do, "This is the reaping for the third Quarter Quell, after which will come its 100th anniversary. As you were informed in the nation-wide broadcast by the president, this year, the participants in the games will be taken from the living victors each district has to present. We will now begin the reaping; may the odds be ever in your favor."

The man puts his hand into one of the two name-bowls that sit in front of him; extracting the piece of paper chosen, he holds it up for the world to see. It will decide the female tribute for the Quarter Quell. I can practically hear the mothers of District 3 sighing in relief already, for this year, their children are to be spared. I know that there is a good chance that I will be chosen as tribute, and the thought leaves me distressed; however, after years of mentoring, not to mention going into the games myself once, my features instinctively fall into an expressionless mask that effectively keeps my emotions out of the Capitol's reach and their horrible tendency to exploit even the tiniest display of weakness.

Despite the fact that I stood ready for my name to be called out, shock still jolted my body as would an electric shock as Acide opened up the slip of paper and called out, his voice ringing and echoing off the silent walls of the buildings surrounding Sundial Square, "Electra Espionage!"

I know that I have no choice but to play my given role in these games. And so, I hold my head high and start to walk up the aisles towards the platform, where my escort is waiting for me. I can feel the eyes of the entire district on me; I know what they are thinking. That Electra had once brought immense glory to their home, and that she will definitely do it again— that its in her blood.

I know that they are right. I had gone into the games with an attitude that more or less helped me make it out of the games alive, and that now, participating in the Third Quarter Quell, I will try my best to return home with my sanity intact. However, I know that whilst a lot of victors who will be reaped will be too old, mentally fragile and wasted to defend themselves, there will be definitely more than a few who will be forces to reckon with, for example, Katniss Everdeen from District 12 will definitely be chosen, for she is the only female victor they have, and Finnick Odair, the sea-master with the trident from District 4, might be reaped as well. I know that my chances to make it out of the arena alive are decidedly slim, and what worries me is not my life or death, but the fate of Eleanor.

Even now, I can hear her screaming behind me, her cries cutting through my heart and making me want to shoot President Snow for pawning us victors once more. "Mama! MAMA!" I don't turn to look at her, though I fervently wish to reassure and console her, for I do not want to give the Capitol Heads the satisfaction of causing me emotional unsettlement. It is as I have almost reached the podium, that a quiet and wavering voice calls out from near my daughter, causing all heads, including mine, to turn in wonder and amazement that is mixed with the same amount of astonishment and dismay.

"Volunteer…. Volunteer."

Before I locate the source of the voice, I know that it is Wiress. She is a kind woman in her late forties, who has never been the same after witnessing the games during her year. As we have been nieghbours and friends over the years, her volunteering causes a ache in my heart, for I have not let many souls make their marks there, and the few leave too soon for my liking. I know that Wiress is a bit withdrawn, and that she doesn't have a very good chance of lasting in these games now.

But, I also know why she has done me this favor. It is so that Eleanor won't be left parent-less. My vision becomes foggy as I recall all those years that I have spent in this woman's company; taking her advice on even the smallest of issues, handing my daughter to her whenever I left for the games as a mentor, growing to find her a mother figure to me… but I know that there is no going back. I want to tell her how much this sacrifice means to me, but as I have always been terrible at words, all I can do is swallow my tears and embrace her as she makes her way past me. Wiress returns the hug as I had known she would, and inside my ear she whispers comfortingly, "Courage, Elec, courage." All I do is hug her tighter and before I know it, she is taking my designated place on stage; her head held high, to show the Capitol that they can ruin our lives, but they won't get away with ruining our hope and strength.

I return to the spot from where I had started what seemed like hours ago, and the peacekeepers surrounding us let my Eleanor push through and I gathered her in my arms for a moment, trying to quiet;y convey the fact that everything happening was for the best. Up on stage, Acide was applauding Wiress and was in the process of selecting a male tribute. I glanced over at Damien, knowing that whether he was chosen or not, he was going to go into the Hunger Games. He didn't have to tell her; she already knew. "Chip Stashun!"

I bowed my head in respect for the old man who began to make his way to the front. He is the oldest victor we have, nearing the age of eighty. He has, in a way, mentored every single tribute to be selected after him, and his valuable advice is but one of the many qualities he possesses. But, as it is with time and age, his memory has become faulty, and his physical abilities have deteriorated to almost nothing. He needs assistance in moving to the stage, and is doing so, when a sure and confident voice rings out over the head of the crowd. "Please, I volunteer."

Craning my neck ever so slightly I see that the volunteer is Beetee, one of the many technological wizzes that we have here in District 3; he specializes in the weaponry field, and is upheld in the highest of respects by his fellow peers and acquaintances. I don't really understand exactly why he is volunteering, for he is in his late forties like Wiress, and she is one of his good friends; they always mentor together. But, seeing as Beetee was not someone people questioned, I cleared my head of any possible motives that he must have for putting himself into such a predicament.

I turn my head to look at Damien Padatryst. His jaw is clenched tightly and his hands are balled into fists. After years of knowing him, I realize that he is frustrated, and the source for his discomfort also dawns on me: Damien wanted to volunteer as well, but Beetee had beat him to it. Damien has a very interesting approach to the Capitol, President Snow and The Hunger Games. He will push the limits of the privileges granted to us victors by the Capitol, but it will be to assist the civilians of the poorer districts. I know that he approves of the latest turn of events, which include the newest victors of District 12, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, and I know that he wants to be part of the action that will most definitely take place in Panem.

I reach out and grab his hand, giving it what I hoped came across as a reassuring squeeze; he returned it, and I knew that even though we aren't going to be participating in these hunger games, our year will be just as eventful, if not more, for this means that we both are going to be the mentors of District 3 this year.

Acide Basement, ever the optimist, ends the ceremony with a few choice words about the courage of our volunteers, and wishes them the best of luck. The crowds start to disperse and I turn to the young girl standing next to me as she speaks. "Mom, I can't believe what just happened!"

I crouch, and look into her bright blue eyes as I answer, "Ellie, you knew something like this could have happened. I already told you I might've been selected."

"But.. but.. I couldn't have beared it if you competed in the Games!"

Ignoring the wrong tense of words she is using, I go on ahead, adopting a stern tone, "That does not mean you can let the whole world know how you're feeling."

Ellie's auburn head drops in shame and I decide to explain things to her instead. "Eleanor, you KNOW that we cannot show the Capitol how their games make us feel— we can't give them that satisfaction. Anyway, what's done is done. Wiress is going instead of me."

At this statement, I notice the tears gathering in my daughter's eyes, and knowing that her distress at the end results match mine, I pull her into a hug, and we hang on for a few moments as I let her cry out her frustration. I pull away and wipe away the leftover tears. "Now," I say, attempting a smile which is reluctantly returned, "I'll take you to see Wiress. And don't let her see you cry; be the strong 8 year old I know you are."

Having reassured Eleanor somewhat, I take her hand and we leave Sundial Square as other citizens around us do the same. My eyes catch Damien's, and I know what he is thinking. My mind is immersed in the same thoughts. I look back at the now abandoned stage one last time, knowing that this year, things are going to be different.

Fire is catching, and I for one, am going to be on the right side of the tracks when it begins to rage.

Let the 75th Annual Hunger Games begin.

A/N: So, this idea came to me recently,.. I know the summary doesn't really attract, nor does it make sense, and that this is pretty boring too.. but if you managed to read through it, then you have my thanks. Please review and let me know what you think and if I should continue this...