A Relentless Fire

Nearly twenty-five years after the last rebellion failed, a new enemy has appeared before Panem. This time, circuses and bread alone may not be enough to stop the burning fires of a changing world. The Union, an alliance of the world powers outside of North America, has waged war against Panem in order to break its harsh economic monopoly on the resources of the western hemisphere.

This is the story of a group of people whose job it is to bring change to the small world of Panem by plunging it into a storm of fire and brimstone. It is the dawn of the 99th Hunger Games and the start of a new world order.

Chapter 1: Remote Control

"We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact."

-Jean-Paul Sarte

It is said that the world will end in a blaze of glory.

He was hyperaware of everything around him: the lead weight of the rifle clutched in his hands, the squelch of mud beneath his boots, even of the blood pumping furiously through his chest. Just under three hours ago he had been standing no more than five miles away, right hand pressed against the steady beat of his heart, as his company prepared to march onto the battlefield across the marshes. They set off with salutes, shouts, and the hope that they would live to see the next sunrise.

Now he could only pray that these last five years of training would stay with him until the end. There was hardly any time to breathe in the midst of combat, let alone run through training drills and snippets of advice that their instructors and commanding officers gave them during their Academy days. The mechanical reloading of his rifle, at least, required no attention now. He could complete all the motions before his mind even registered that he had emptied the magazine.

It was his first experience on the battlefield, on a rainy day just shy of his nineteenth birthday, and around him everyone was falling to pieces. Some were literally strewn across the ground, half buried under shells and mud. Others were busy holding back their screams to focus on surviving the next few seconds while Luka concentrated solely on the distant horizon in front of them. He ignored his dry, bleeding lips, the burn of fatigue in his limbs, and his hands that were trembling, unknowingly, from the cold.

Unlike the common foot soldiers in the infantry, they weren't on the frontlines at the start of the battle. Entering the armed forces as a recent graduate of the most prestigious military academy in the world had its advantages. Most common men who had seen even a lick of battle might have digressed, saying that ranking officers were mere children in the face of war, but that their armed forces functioned on privilege and credentials like that. Long ago Luka probably agreed with them, way before he decided to enroll in the Academy himself.

Now he couldn't tell if what they said was correct. Surely experience would someday harden even the softest of men, but in the face of death it was hard to say that anyone fighting was naive.

A thin and heavy fog settled over the area, casting it in a haze of pinkish mist. With it came the bleary static of the radio and a grim report from the frontlines. Even through the static he could hear gunshots and cannon fire. All around him were his fellow graduates from the Academy, all young men and women who had graduated with top marks and a hopeful future, all with looks of utter hopelessness plastered over their faces.

If they survived their first battle, they could rise in the ranks. For someone who, five years ago, had never even considered the possibility of serving in the army, a situation like this was almost unreal. Of course they had run through plenty of simulations at school, but nothing could account for the cold, fatigue, and very real possibility of dying a painful and gruesome death on the battlefield. Instructors had told them stories, stories of battlefield casualties so horrible it might have made a normal citizen cry, but it was only once they were fighting did any of it seem real.

Other than those factors, Luka had to admit that not much else was different from the simulations. Shooting the far-off enemy was different than stabbing another person to death or using all of your weight to strangle him, of course. It was the rain and the mud that he had never felt before, the wet and cold soaking through his already weighty clothes and obscuring his vision. But for a kid who had grown up scouring the streets of a filthy city, it was easy to retreat into that small place in his mind where he could no longer feel the cold bite at his skin.

Mud splashed onto his face as the others trampled ahead of him. The fireworks of gunfire lit the misty air aflame. The glare from the shots blinded him for a moment and in that moment, more water and mud had splattered against him, warm and thick against his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, he saw flecks of black on the thin, lightweight visor he wore to keep the rain and dirt away from his eyes.

He spared a precious few seconds to wipe it away, realizing after the droplets smeared against the tinted lenses that it was not mud, but the blood of some comrade of his who was lying in a struggling heap near his feet. He mind, already on autopilot, devoted a few moments to fly through memories of his academy days. He pulled up images and flashes of voices as he pressed his finger against the trigger again, again, and again, into the mist.

Dietrich Holt, originally from the northern block of the Republic, enlisted in the Federation's armed forces upon graduation instead. Always a bit of a goof, but intelligent enough to know how to mediate a conflict, he had graduated just a few ranks lower than Luka. He was still the top of the class in marksmanship and had even given Luka a few pointers if they happened to be in the firing range at the same time.

This wasn't the first time he had seen a corpse. It was the first time it had been someone he knew, someone he had spoken to before, a person he might even have called his friend in another life. He was sure that others were gone by now, too, perhaps cold and dead on a different battlefield kilometers away, but dead nonetheless.

But today it was Dietrich at his feet and Dietrich's blood on his face.

He didn't want to die like the others, die like a dog on foreign soil for a cause he wasn't even sure he knew, and beyond even the desire for life was the strong urge to win. If he died here now, all those years he spent studying and climbing to the top would have been for nought. He might as well have taken his chances on the streets of Volgograd. Because Luka didn't want to die, he didn't allow himself to snap in the middle of the battle.

He wiped the blood from his face and stepped over Dietrich's body, telling himself that in war there were surely to be sacrifices. Like pawns on a chessboard, there were times when those sacrifices had to be made in order to win. War wasn't really about killing all those possible. It was about making the right sacrifices at the right time. Until he saw the outcome of this one, Luka wouldn't really know if these people had died here today for a greater purpose or if their lives had just been carelessly tossed aside by higher ups they didn't even know.

By telling himself this much, he was able to pull himself through the next five hours of combat.

When the sky broke over the ceasefire, their commanding officer clapped a thick hand over his shoulder and gave him a good shake and the promotion he had wanted.

Everyone who had taken part in that battle over ten years ago had lost a significant piece of who they were with its conclusion. Luka's comrades who had died that day and the ones who died the next day had given their lives for a border conflict that was never resolved. To this day the Federation and the Balkan states exchanged blows over that piece of land, even though it was so ravaged by war that it could be used for nothing else now.

As he was swept up by the onslaught of funerals and the new responsibilities of his rank, he had failed to notice that he, too, lost something important to him in those days. It was a world that he had been glad to leave behind. The duties and expectations of a soldier, even a ranked one, were mantles that not every man was prepared to bear upon his back. It meant fleeing the country and leaving his friends and family behind, but Luka had never once looked back. This was the first time he had recalled that day so vividly in ages. It always lingered in his dreams, at the corners of his vision all these years, but never to such a degree.

He glanced at the broad back of the commanding officer in charge of organizing the ragtag bunch of Union soldiers with a hard and dull stare. Seeing that man - Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Aristov - again had no doubt triggered those memories. It was the same back he had followed blindly into the fog that day, the same person who clapped him over the shoulder and gave him that coveted promotion. Looking into his eyes, even after ten years, made some juvenile part of Luka feel like he was a young and naive officer who had never seen conflict in his life.

Aristov turned around fully, never one to do anything with half a heart, and caught Luka's attention with a rough and conspicuous cough. He pried his head out of the clouds of his memories and lifted the thin holographic computer tablet from the table before walking over to the older man. Even after ten years the man still towered over him and treated him with the same warm formality he granted anyone who fell under his command. Maybe if he was colder, more resentful of his former subordinate, Luka could dislike him easier.

Luka presented the man with charts and graphs of data, topological maps, and a very loose budget that the Union had allotted to this campaign alone. It was rare to see a figure with that many zeros these days, but the Union had the financial backing of most of the countries in the civilized world and he was the last person to criticize how they spent it.

"Since the local population has been rather receptive to the idea of war against Panem, we find ourselves with a little more leeway in terms of supplies. I'll arrange to have troops sent out to these towns and cities as you requested. As long as we have our supply lines, transportation will prove to be no problem at all," Luka said, quicker than he'd have liked. To his relief, his hands were steady as he flicked through the charts and figures.

Aristov nodded approvingly, sparing a glance at the perfect lines of troops completing perfunctory drills in the yard. It was hot and humid in South America, hardly anything like the cold winters and dry summers of their homeland, but to their credit they hardly complained in front of their superiors. Aristov waved a hand at the hologram computer. "Anything else, Kirsanov?"

Hearing that man speak his name still sent shivers down his spine. It was distant and at the same time had the warm familiarity of an old friend. Luka shook the feeling away and nodded, eyeing the troops outside. There were more than just Federation soldiers out there, marked by their blue and green uniforms.

"Yes, sir," he said absently, tapping one finger against the headset over his ears. Their company's lines of communication were a little sketchy in this part of the world, but were more efficient than anything the Republic, Federation, or League had combined. Returning to the conversation, he turned away from the troops with a sharp click of his tongue. "Please tell those NGO guys that a surplus of supplies does not mean the army can afford to take prisoners of war any time soon. They seem more inclined to listen to you."

Aristov chuckled deeply and responded in his thick accent that sounded more German than Russian, "You haven't changed much, Kirsanov; there's only ever black and white with you, probably why this job suits you so much. And trust me, I'm glad you're happy where you are now, but some people do join the army to actually help and protect others, believe it or not. Just try to be a little more human and they might be willing to listen."

"Lieutenant colonel," Luka snapped, staring up at the taller man with a steely expression. "This is a war. There's no helping or protecting anyone, no matter how you might twist it to suit your needs. As long as you signed up to be a soldier and fight, there are orders you have to follow even if you don't believe in it, even if you hate it. I can't waste my time explaining why having to accommodate the enemy while we're fighting a war on foreign soil is just not feasible."

A steely silence settled between the two men, but Aristov refused to grant him a response. Instead, the man turned towards the door, waving goodbye with a casual shrug. Anyone else might not have understood the message, but Luka knew immediately that he could expect no help from his former commander on the subject. It left him with a deep scowl on his face and a quick tongue for the rest of the day.

They received news of the cargo ship's whereabouts hours later, sometime in the evening when most of the troops stationed at their temporary headquarters were eating dinner in the makeshift cafeteria. Luka had refused to leave the command room, eating only at the request of his subordinates, mostly because he knew that he would run into Aristov if he left. He disguised it as working overtime, but he really did have a ton of numbers to calculate before the night was over.

When he received the coded message from the ship, he forwarded it to the communications and information technology department, and waited for a response. A bad storm had rolled into the ocean over the past few days, sweeping along the coastline and stalling any transport ships on the open seas, but that was all according to the plan. The only unfortunate thing was that it had halted communications for a few days.

Outside it was raining again. The ground had been damp all day long, the soldiers' heavy boots sinking into the mud constantly. Luka didn't envy them in the slightest as he watched them toil to help their reinforcements settle into a temporary camp where they would wait to be deployed. He saw Aristov wander among his men a few times, but the sight promptly brought him back to his charts and data with a sigh.

"I heard the arms dealer got back to us," said that familiar voice. Luka's head snapped up painfully, but he refused to turn around and acknowledge the man until he walked across the room to stand right next to him. "You deal with them often, don't you? Both your company and theirs operate out of the Balkans, after all."

Luka almost breathed a sigh of relief. They were back to discussing business and strictly business. As long as it stayed that way, everything would be fine. He finally put his holographic computer down, setting the slim pen he had been playing with earlier next to it. "I've dealt with their logistics department before and we frequently purchase their wares, but I've only met their CEO and his son a handful of times. They should get the job done, though; they do pride themselves on efficiency, same as us."

"And how many wars have you fought in together?" Aristov asked. Luka frowned at the out-of-place question.

"It's not like a shipping company is directly involved, usually," he said slowly. "Never have I heard of anyone hiring them for direct combat. Normally we collaborate with transportation of soldiers and supplies…"

Aristov, for some inexplicable reason, scoffed just at that moment. Luka narrowed his eyes at the man and stopped talking as the turned to face him fully. It was getting late, but he understood that the coded messages the communications department was using in this particular campaign involved far more encryption than the previous ones. All he could do was wait and unfortunately, talk to Aristov until he could return to his job.

"Is something about this amusing?" Luka finally said.

"That you'd call mercenaries 'soldiers'," he responded with a wry chuckle. "Not to criticize you or anything, but to hire mercenaries and black-market arms dealers to do all the fighting? Just what kind of world do we live in?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. Luka could provide him with a hundred different answers. This was a world where nations modified their own people in cruel and inhumane experiments to create the perfect soldiers, where children volunteered to fight on the frontlines in battle. It was a world that had nearly been destroyed by the scourge of war, only to embrace the same ideals of violence not even two centuries later. Entire nations' economies were sustained by conflict, including the Balkan states.

This was the way their universe was structured and it had been this way for as long as anyone could remember, but just because Luka never knew any different didn't mean he was blind. It might not have mattered to him one way or another if two or three countries went to war and tons of people died, but he acknowledged the fact that it was far from utopia.

Luka shrugged and flicked a finger at the large, blank computer screens across the room. "They let us handle all this stuff because they don't want to commit to a country that might not even be able to be saved, I guess. I mean, the rest of the world will benefit if this campaign succeeds, but if it fails then all of your soldiers and resources wouldn't have been wasted for nothing. We're doing it for money. It's different than risking your life to save some other country from itself on a continent you've never even seen before."

Aristov hummed to fill the silence as the weight of his words settled around them. Not many involved in this campaign would have voice those opinions out loud, but Luka had no doubt that a good portion of them thought the same.

"Do you feel the same about the war from ten years ago?" Aristov said at last. Luka turned away from him, willing the communications department to hurry up and decode that message. Not that he even expected any mishaps to have occurred since the last message, but he had to type up a report and send it over to his superiors anyways.

Ten years was a long time. Some of the people fighting in this war were just kids a decade ago. Luka knew that some of those kids had been fighting ever since that war ten years ago, too. In that decade of time, many things about their world had changed and yet there was plenty that remained the same.

"Sometimes," he quietly admitted after five minutes passed. Aristov had always been an infinitely patient man. "Why do people choose to become soldiers, anyways? Do they just like fighting that much?"

Aristov was most likely smiling at him in that wry, quirky way of his or at least rolling his eyes. He sounded like a cadet fresh out of the academy, no doubt.

"Of course not," Aristov reassured him unnecessarily. "Though that's a strange question coming from the guy who works for a PMC. It's only natural to want to protect your country, but the people you work with fight for a living. Shouldn't you be asking them that question?"

"Perhaps," Luka said delicately, closing his eyes for a moment and remembering the how Dietrich's parents looked the day he took it upon himself to tell them that their son was dead. The military would have gotten around to addressing all the casualties eventually, but in the meantime his parents were hoping that he was coming home soon. Luka didn't want to have to deliver such horrible news to anyone ever again and so he had run away, perhaps selfishly, to avoid it.

He had entered Liechten Academy, one of the most prestigious military academies in the world, on a whim and a dare while all of his classmates entered with a more substantial purpose clearly imprinted in their minds. Maybe that was the source of his confusion now.

A small, mechanical beep snapped Luka out of those hazy memories. The coded message, now translated to the common language, appeared on the screen for the two men to read.

The storm that they had been praying would come did indeed hit, stalling all ships out at sea. Luka found himself sighing in relief despite himself. They might have had some of the world's greatest meteorologists working for them on behalf of the Union, but nature was the one thing mankind still had difficulty predicting and controlling.

"Looks like we had nothing to worry about," Aristov said. "I'll leave you to it. We won't be hearing from them again in a while, right?"

Luka nodded, sinking back into the familiarity of his job. "Communicating with them while they are within Panem's borders would be too risky. The country may be preoccupied with that Hunger Games event, but that doesn't mean they're totally relaxed. We can't assume they will be stupid enough not to suspect foul play."

"We can't jeopardize the EBSC's safety," Aristov agreed. "Still can't believe we're placing so much on the success of an arms dealer, but still."

"Technically they're a shipping company," Luka said. "But that sort of immunity can only go so far. Intelligence from within Panem is a little sketchy, so all we can do is wait."

Aristov didn't laugh this time, but he did smile. "Get some rest, Kirsanov. You always work yourself too hard."

Aristov left Luka behind in the empty command room. It was only after he was gone did Luka sigh heavily, leaning back and squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't know whether or laugh or cry at the situation. Nearly ten years had passed since he deserted the Federation Army and now he was faced with the same commander on a battlefield that was equally confusing.

A long, long time ago, all the nations in the world closed their doors to each other and lived in utter isolation for nearly twenty years. Those two decades were the closest they had ever come to world peace. Sometimes Luka couldn't help but think that things should have stayed that way.

Yay, I am back (sort of). After months of trying to figure out where I wanted this story to go, we finally have a completed and final version of Chapter 1. The bad news is, I started school again, and this semester I have absolutely no free time since I'm also working on two massive original fics. Still, enjoy, and relish in the fact that I actually know where this story will go.

The final product is a lot different than the one I originally envisioned, which never really developed past the Games. After realizing that the whole reason I started this story was to explore the outside world, this plot developed. That being said, the Games are not featured heavily in this story, so if that is a disappointment or something, feel free to move on and read something else.

The endnotes on this chapter were a little long, but from now on most of these notes will be posted to the blog for this story. Link is in my profile. So if you were confused by some terminology or was wondering what I was thinking while writing this, feel free to check it out.

At the end of each chapter you will find little character blurbs like this one, which give a little background information on different characters, including the ones submitted when the SYOT was open.

Luka Kirsanov: A former officer of the Slavic Federation Army. Currently a logistics administrator working for Kasun Security Group, a PMC based out of the Balkans. A former graduate of Liechten Academy who received top marks in all of his courses. Served in various border conflicts during the Leyan Wars before defecting from the army and escaping to the Balkan states. In the campaign to reclaim North America, he is working with Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Aristov, a former instructor at Liechten Academy.