AN: It's no secret that I'm pretty rubbish at finding the motivation to keep long stories going, and unfortunately I cut my last multi-chapter fic short because I didn't feel like I could keep it up. But I am DETERMINED to make In Panem We Trust a decent-length multi-chapter fic! I really hope you enjoy it, please review and tell me what you think! I really appreciate all the feedback I receive about my writing. Please note that it's been quite a while since I've read the books so some odd details may not be 100% accurate. Also, if you have any requests/prompts for a oneshot you'd like written, please send me a message :)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. All credit goes to Suzanne Collins.
Chapter One – Annie
My mouth stretches slightly into a sad smile as I stroke the edge of the photograph I'm holding with my thumb. It's of Finnick, Mags and I at Mags' 80th birthday party, shortly before she passed away a few weeks ago. We're all wearing colourful paper hats, and Mags stands between Finnick and I and grins at the camera as the two of us plant kisses on both of her cheeks.
Not enough time has passed for me to be able to remember the happy times we shared together. I'm still grieving, and Finnick is, too. Some days are better than others. Today is an okay day. I haven't had a good day since I was reaped to represent District 4 in the 70th Hunger Games five years ago.
Finnick enters the living room carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, mine filled to the brim with mini pink marshmallows, his overflowing with dozens of little white sugar cubes.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says in a semi-cheerful tone. He places the mugs on the coffee table and then sinks down into the couch beside me with a groan of tiredness. Perplexed by my silence, he wraps his arm around my shoulder and leans forward.
"What are you looking at?" he asks.
I don't say anything, but instead, hand the photograph to him. He sighs but then makes an attempt to smile.
"She loved that bracelet you made her, the silver one with all the little seashells dangling from it."
I nod and smile back at him. "It took me ages to find them on the beach. I didn't want any that were cracked or dirty or a yucky colour."
"She never took it off after you gave it to her. Even when she was sleeping. She thought the world of you, you know."
I nod again and bite my lip to suppress the tears threatening to escape my eyes. I don't want to ruin my okay day.
"I miss her," I say in a quiet voice, looking at the floor and wringing my hands out.
"Hey..." Finnick says in a quiet, comforting voice. He cups my cheek with his hand and gently lifts my head up so I have to look at him. "It's alright, Annie. I miss her too. But she's still with us. As long as we remember her she'll never truly be gone."
I nod for the third time. Finnick presses a soft kiss on my forehead. He checks his watch.
"It's almost time."
The reading of the card. This year is the 75th anniversary of The Hunger Games, which also means it's the third Quarter Quell. Quarter Quell. The sound of it alone is enough to make you feel intimidated. Every twenty five years, as a reminder to each new generation of the horrors of the Dark Days, there is a special Games with a sadistic twist to beat down any District residents who may have become cocky or complacent. Quarter Quells receive more attention and coverage than the normal Games. The arena is unique and can be seen as both a weapon and a threat, depending on where you stand in the training score league table. The regular Games are cruel, but the Quells are on another level entirely. I can never be more thankful that I didn't have to participate in one.
Although the reaping isn't due to take place for another three months, the citizens of Panem are required to tune in to a mandatory viewing from the Capitol tonight, in which President Snow will reveal to the nation what horrible twist the tributes will be faced with this time. The cost for not watching is imprisonment, so although it is the last thing either of us want to see, Finnick grabs the remote and turns on the television set. We grasp each other's hand tightly.
The anthem of Panem fills our living room, and we watch as President Snow mounts the stage in front of the Presidential Palace which has been decorated with red banners that hang from roof to ground, each stamped with the golden seal of Panem and bordered with strips of gold silk. Following him, there is a young boy who looks to be in his late teens. He's dressed in a smart white suit and is carrying a plain wooden box.
The anthem ends and President Snow begins to speak. He reminds us all of the great war and all the loss and hurt and suffering that brought about The Hunger Games in the first place, seventy five years ago. He then goes on to tell us what happened in the previous Quarter Quells.
"On the twenty fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."
I gulp as I imagine what it must have been like to be within the tribute age range at the time of the first Quarter Quell, which was essentially a popularity contest. To know that your name was not drawn from the reaping bowl by chance, but that you were being shipped off to the arena to die because your neighbours had people they'd rather save over you.
"On the fiftieth anniversary," the President continues, "as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."
Facing forty seven other tributes instead of twenty three, and knowing that each one has to die for you to make it out alive must make you feel like you might as well grab a knife from the Cornucopia and slit your own throat the minute the gong goes off. It would be far less painful and a lot quicker than bleeding or starving or freezing to death.
"And now we honour our third Quarter Quell," says the President. The young boy in white steps forward and slowly opens the lid of the box. Inside, there are tidy, upright rows of yellowing envelopes. It is clear that the tradition of the Quarter Quell will not be coming to a close any time soon. The President removes an envelope clearly marked with the number 75. He breaks the seal and pulls out a small rectangular piece of card. He reads from it.
"On the seventy fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors."
Everything is silent. I can't hear the reactions of the audience on TV. Finnick's mouth moves quickly but no sound comes out. Everything is mute.
No. Everything is not mute. I just can't hear over my screams.
My vision topples as I collapse into Finnick's lap. I shake and shriek and cry and kick and thrust. I feel Finnick's arms encircling my struggling body, but instead of relaxing into his hold, I place my hands over my ears and push against both sides of my head. Maybe I can undo what I heard. Maybe I can undo what he said.
I'm slipping away now. I don't know if it's the shock, or if I'm voluntarily retreating inside my head. Everything's becoming fuzzy, blurred around the edges, as if it's not real, as if I'm dreaming. I wish I was dreaming. All I know is that I'm still screeching as Finnick stands up, clutching onto my shuddering frame. He walks a few steps and exits the living room. My head rolls and rests against his strong chest, and then I black out.