A/N: I don't own The Hunger Games. Enjoy!
I
The announcements came and people sat around the battered televisions in their shabby houses that were falling apart. Mothers and fathers and all those above the age of twenty nine remembered the last time, other than the Games, there had been a mandantory announcement, and they trembled with fear and revulsion, revulsion at what the demon known as the Capitol would force upon them next. Children stared and prayed that the game of death would leave them for this year. Then, the strange blue glow illuminated a face, the face of a snake. Their "president".
"And on the twenty-fifth anniversary, the first Quarter Quell, to remind the rebels that their children were dying because of their bad choices, tributes will be voted in by the people of their district." The card was placed in its envelope and the people saw the dozens of cards, and cried out in fear, for the Games would not end for years upon years, until they were long beneath the ground, if ever. And then the meaning of the words sunk in.
"Choose? How are we going to choose?" Even in the proudest districts, those least liked, those most hated, their names were chosen and written on tiny slips of paper, for the voting box. People feared they were sending children to their doom. And they were. Twenty-three, chosen by their districts, would not be returning on the victory train.
When the reaping came, those children who had killed, stole, lied, gotten others arrested, the children of criminals, they all were fearful, knowing that the odds were not in their favor. Oh no, they were not. The odds were never in anyone's favor. The victors were haunted (they didn't want to think about what happened to the others), and those who were spared knew they were alive at the price of another's life. Some districts held a lottery, not wanting blood on their hands, but when most of the tributes mounted the stage, they glared at the people, the people who had doomed them to die. The mentors asked why. Why had they, of all people, been chosen for a death match? The answers varied.
Once the week of dressing up for the slaughter had come and gone, the people of the districts stayed glued to their televisions, hoping that the child who had gotten their vote was the victor, or was not the victor. Their votes had sent these children to their deaths. It wasn't like a normal year, where it was random and no district citizen (except officials) could be held accountable. But now, who would wash the blood from their hands? The victor, returning with deep scars that would never ever heal?
They watched as Threada Collins of District 8, whose father had burned down a factory, killing hundreds of workers, triumphed over the serial killer from 9 and the informant from 12. She returned angrily to her district. Her victory tour was mostly Threada staring down at her district, who had wanted her to die.
The first Quarter Quell was the worst, the people thought. They were wrong.
II
Twenty-five horrible years of watching children die later, the time came again. People once again gathered around the television. Children were terrified. What would the sick twist be this year? The card was taken. Everyone took a deep breath. Who would be chosen when the time came? Would maybe, just maybe, the odds be in their favor? No, it was Panem. The nation that killed twenty-three teenagers for no reason at all. No one said that though, they'd be killed.
"Twice the number of tributes will be reaped this year." Many tears were shed. Many, many tears. Parents held their children closer, knowing they had double the chance of closing their shudders and weeping when Games time came. The Careers cheered. Two of each gender could go in, which meant more people with a chance of winning. Of course, since two Careers had been raised to want to kill. Killers were executed, but victors were cheered. How wrong was that? In all the districts, shock rippled across the people. This was going to be an interesting, to put it lightly, year. Reaping time was approaching fast, and four houses would be closed off in mourning, instead of two. More children would lose their siblings.
The time came, and people gathered in the reaping square, for the fancy birds, no, Capitolites, to choose four corpses among the people 12-18. The odds were not in anyone's favor, this time around. Double the chance. Threada Collins (remember her?) sat in a chair, still glaring. (Her scars had not healed. Who ever said they would?) She looked out as children and adults alike shook with fear of dying or losing a loved one. The escorts, unaware of how the people's hearts cried out in fear, rummaged around in bowls as twelve year olds, the youngest ones there, tried not to cry. Their first reaping, and they were more likely to be picked. Four names to be read. Four bodies to bury. Four sets of families and friends to weep and dress in black. Four "presidents" since the Games began. Four was not a good number for Panem as of late.
Trying not to cry, (or whoop too loudly) the tributes walked to the stage and shook hands with three people they might have to kill. The mentors tried their very best. The Capitolites swooned and cheered, happy the Games would be "better" this year. They had something very wrong with them, the silly dress-up figures, if they cheered as children went to their death.
The games began in a horrible meadow, a meadow of doom. Everything in it was poison that could kill you easily. Perhaps it was a representation of the Capitol. It was beautiful yet cruel. The tributes died in droves, their blood everywhere. The youngest children, and not just them, went to bed with horrible nightmares of death. Everything in the arena was designed to kill, except perhaps Haymitch Abernathy of District 12, who survived that meadow. His family never saw him come home. They died.
People thought nothing could be worse than the second Quarter Quell. Things could be worse, they would see.
III
Panem was about to burn, and Katniss Everdeen was the spark that lit the inferno. The girl on fire had provided hope. The president (no quotation marks now, he'd kill you) needed to break her to break the people. How to extinguish the girl on fire? He smiled and sniffed his rose. This year was a Quarter Quell. He ordered someone to change the card. Once again, everyone gathered around their televisions, awaiting the announcement of what would happen this year. How their children would die. And then the card was opened.
"Tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors."
Some sighed in relief, their children were safe. Safe! Others roared in fury. How dare they! It was almost impossible to conduct the reapings in some districts. The victors were terrified. (Yes, victors can be scared.) Back to the arena, the source of their trauma? Death at the hands of a friend? The reaping day came, and victors walked to the stage.
That arena was particularly horrible. (Perhaps Plutarch Heavensbee wanted to make the last arena very special.) The clock format was as if it was ticking down to the time the explosives Katniss Everdeen had left were about to explode. Protests raged in the streets, and Panem finally had hope. The people found they were far from powerless, and they were happy. The victor tributes were fuel for the fire. They made their last protests on the interview night, and the girl on fire was flaming once again. (Flame to the fire that was burning the Capitol.)
In the arena, the clock that was ticking down to the fall of Snow, the mockingjay was trapped. But not for long. Her arrow at the forcefield showed the districts that they could fight back. And fight back they did. They were fighting for their children, the children they lost. The bombing of Twelve was more fuel to the fire. District 13 rose from the ashes to lead Panem to freedom.
The box with the Quell cards was burned in a fire as the president holed himself in his greenhouse.
The cards burned.
They burned like the girl on fire.
They burned like the inferno of liberty engulfing Panem.
They burned.
Panem would never see a Quarter Quell again.