Chapter One
The steel glints when I hold it up to the light. It's a fine sword, made of good steel. The edge is sharp enough to slice someone's arm to the bone.
I slide the sword back into its sheath. Father always makes me clean my weapons after I practice, even on days where I haven't spilled any blood. My trainers agree. I don't see the point. If they're going to pull my name from the pool of volunteers, knowing how to clean blood off a sword isn't going to keep me alive.
I set the now-pristine weapon aside and rise from my desk. As I look around my bedroom, my eyes touch on a dozen different weapons—maces, knives, even a crossbow. I've been trained in all of them so that, if my name does get called for the reaping, I'll be able to kill efficiently.
But the odds are not in my favor. There are hundreds of volunteers every year in District Two. Because we are militarized. Because we know the honor that comes with victory, unlike the tributes of some of the other districts. Because we understand that facing death to bring home victory for your district will also bring a flood of gifts and praise that will make the next year that much more pleasant.
And of course, the individual who wins is set for life. There's always that.
I walk over to my dresser and don the outfit my mother set for the reaping. I'm glad, as I pull the sleek, black-and-white blazer onto my body, that I'm not from one of the lesser districts. This way, I have a better chance of getting in. Having the whole teenage population to draw from is too random—I prefer the thought of being selected from a pool of people who actually want to win.
"Cato, honey, are you ready to go?" my mother calls from the bottom of the stairs. I secure the buckle on my belt, making sure everything is straight and perfect in the event I get chosen.
"Yeah, coming."
I'm downstairs half a minute later. As I reach the landing, my mother presents me with a plate of steak, drizzled with some savory sauce she bought downtown.
Not great as far as last meals go, but I suppose the odds of me getting picked really aren't that huge. No reason to make a big deal out of it. I sit down at the table, slice the steak apart, and start eating, being careful not to get any of the sauce on my jacket. That would make a poor impression on any potential sponsors. I would look sloppy. Which might be good if I was going for a savage look, but I'm not. So even though I normally don't care if I get food on my clothes, I'm careful.
I hear my father clomping down the stairs in his steel-toed boots. He works at the stun gun factory eight blocks away, making non-lethal weapons for the Peacekeepers our district provides. Safety regulations at the factory are strict—you get caught without proper attire, you get fired. Maybe even publicly whipped, if what you wear is rebellious enough.
Like anyone would need to rebel. We're one of the best districts. Our tributes win one out of every four or five games. We're the ones who get so many sponsors, we almost never go hungry despite it being called the Hunger Games.
"Ready for the reaping?" my dad asks, sitting down across from me.
"Yeah." I push the lettuce around on my plate for a moment before popping it into my mouth. Meat is good for keeping your energy up, but a balanced diet gives you long-term fortitude. Or so I've been told.
"Think you'll get picked this year?" he asks.
I've been volunteering for the past four years, since I was fourteen, but my name's never been drawn. I'd wanted to volunteer earlier, but my father had claimed that twelve-year-olds almost never won, not even if they were from the good districts. "I hope so. The last two years have been nothing but weaklings." Two of them got killed on the first day, and the other two didn't even make it to the final four.
My father nods noncommittally, as if he's trying not to get his hopes up too high. Just like participating, having a child volunteer for the Hunger Games is an honor in District Two.
"You practiced with your sword already?" he asks.
I nod. "Every day."
"Good. There are usually a bunch of different weapons at the Cornucopia, but even in years where the selection is limited, you almost always see swords."
I nod again. There was that one year when competitors only had spiked maces to bludgeon each other with. I would've done well in that one too, but I wasn't of age to compete back then.
I stand and shovel what's left of my lunch into the trash. I set the plate on the countertop, knowing my mom will wash it later. An image of me flying back to the Capitol after I win the Hunger Games flashes through my mind. If I win, Mom will never have to wash another dish again. We could have a whole house just for our servants, and have them come in to clean every day.
I have to wait at the doorway for my parents to be ready. Since I'm in the pool of volunteers, they're allowed to come along. There isn't enough space for all the kids and their families in District Two to attend the reaping, so only the pool of volunteers stands at Central Plaza with their parents and siblings on reaping day. More space for us to make a dramatic entrance, I suppose.
Eventually, they're ready to go. I lead the way down the street, to the train station. All rides to the plaza are free today—apparently volunteering gives you special privileges on reaping day. Either way, we share a train with about a dozen other people. From their fancy clothes—not just expensive, but specially made, hey-look-at-me clothes—I can tell they've also volunteered. Some of them look atrocious, so decked out it's tacky. One girl wears a dress dotted with thousands of flashing lights.
Thankfully, it's a short ride. I get off at the plaza and walk toward the center, lining up with other boys my age. I stand behind a cluster of sixteen-year-olds, waiting for the show to start. Cameras peer down at us from every available ledge, some of them hanging precariously from the edges of buildings. A large concentration of them sits at the platform where the lucky pair who gets chosen this year will stand.
Dismay washes through me when I see the lenses. If I get called onto that platform, every one of those cameras will be trained on me, waiting to document my businesslike demeanor, my piercing gaze, my fierce stance.
Or the look of panic on my face, the way my skin will pale under all those cameras, the too-sharp contrast of my white-and-black jacket.
I shove those thoughts away, reminding myself that this is an honor. If I get chosen, I'll have cameras trained on me for every minute of the Games. If I win, I'll have cameras in my face for the rest of my life, watching as I groom future tributes for glory.
Besides, a camera lens is pretty low on the spectrum of things I should be afraid of. Even tributes like me have fallen due to bad odds or circumstances. That's why the announcers always say "And may the odds be ever in your favor!" In our district, they usually are. So long as nothing too outrageous happens in the first hour of the games, the tributes from District One, Two, and Four generally survive to the final eight, at least.
Sometimes, though, the gamemakers do think of something outrageous, and our tributes get killed early on. But that's a rarity. They like to keep us alive longer because we give them the most exciting footage.
After almost an hour of standing around, they seal off the plaza and introduce the past winners of our district. This takes several minutes. The only district that outnumbers us in the number of living tributes is District Four, and only by a thin margin. Once the names have been read off, a white-haired woman from the Capitol steps up to the podium at the front of the stage and leans into the microphone. Her accent is heavy, almost as if she's speaking like that as some sort of put-on. But after years of watching the Games, I know this is actually how they speak.
It's annoying, but also impressive in a way. How they manage not to laugh at everything they say is a mystery to me. Maybe they don't even realize they're speaking so strangely.
Our district gets a new speaker every year, unlike some of the poorer districts. I've already forgotten the white-haired woman's name by the time she starts reading off The Treaty of Treason. I know this takes a while, so I tune out, keeping still so I'm not noticed. It's unlikely, but if I get picked, and the female tribute happens to see me fidgeting as I stand here, she'll think I'm weak, and I'll have difficulty forming an alliance with her.
No. I stand still and silent, allowing only my mind to drift as the woman trills through The Treaty of Treason in her bizarre accent.
"All right!" she squeaks. The microphone blares with the volume of her voice, and when she speaks again, it's softer. "It's time for the drawing."
She steps over to the glass balls that contain all the names of those who volunteered. My name is in the one on the left, closest to the podium, but the woman skips right past that one and stands behind the girls' sphere. "Ladies first," she says into another microphone. Moving her arm as if it was a snake, she slips her hand into a hole in the top of the sphere and plucks a slip from the sea of papers. "Clove Attila."
I wait, my eyes roaming the sea of female tributes for the girl with that name. A flash of movement catches my eye, and I see a girl with dark brown hair pushing her way through the crowd. The cameras catch her a moment later, revealing her face on the massive screen behind the platform. Her green eyes are dry, which seems like a good sign. Sometimes, parents make their children sign up for the Hunger Games, expecting them to bring honor to the family just for volunteering. But since this girl doesn't appear to be in tears, I have to assume she had at least some say in volunteering.
Not like me. Not that I care. But my father told me over and over again, since I could hold a knife, that I was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games when I was old enough. I never minded because, of all the people who could possibly be chosen, I'd always had an edge.
I've been training for years. Few tributes are as prepared for this as I am.
Clove reaches the stage and climbs gracefully up the steps, her forest-green reaping dress trailing behind her. I find myself glad that she didn't dress in something frilly or tacky, like that girl I saw on the train. This way, she'll get more sponsors. And if I'm chosen, and I ally with her, anything she gets comes my way, too.
If I get chosen. Which, I tell myself as the camera pans over the male tributes, is not as likely as my parents like to think.
"And now for the boys," the white-haired woman sings. She crosses over to the other sphere and buries her hands in the slips of paper. She seems to take more time on this one.
Or maybe you're nervous, and it only seems longer, thinks some insidious part of my brain. Maybe you're afraid of being called.
Nonsense. I've been training my whole life for this moment.
Finally, the woman pulls a slip from the ball. There's no way to tell if it's mine or not—all the slips are identical except for the names typed onto them. But I imagine it's mine, that she's going to call out my name, and I'm going to stride up to the platform like I have every expectation of winning.
But when my name actually crosses her lips, I feel like someone's kicked me in the chest.