CHAPTER 1: HOLIDAY

I wake with a start. I shoot straight up in the bed and I'm breathing as if I've run a mile in a minute; I do know what that feels like. Sweat drips from my forehead with a few drops finding my puffy, red eyes. I hate the sensation of it, but it stings all the more given how tired I am. Dreams, no, not dreams, vivid and unrelenting nightmares had kept me awake the whole night. First, I was being chased by rabid monstrosities that craved my flesh and eventually caught up with me. I awoke in the middle of being torn asunder. The next dream found me walking through a frozen wasteland where ice slowly encased me. I tried desperately to brush it off but, eventually, it had me locked midstride, but I did not die, I merely remained trapped, knowing only brutal cold and fear of unending internment. That was one I could not wake up from, as though I were frozen in the real world as well as in my dream. In the end, the ice all around me turned to an inferno which did not burn my flesh but that I felt nonetheless. It was that imagined agony which had me springing out of bed at the crack of dawn on this day of all days.

Today, after all, was the only official holiday in the entire year, and it was for a very special reason; it was Reaping Day.

Perhaps that was why my dreams had been so vivid and horrific. I am sixteen years old, but this is the first time that this day had caused me such panic. I guess I really didn't understand what the consequences of being chosen in a reaping were until my older brother was taken last year.

But I can't think about that right now. The reaping isn't till two in the afternoon, but I feel I have to mentally prepare myself. My underwear and vest are drenched with sweat, so I grab a towel and half-jog to the bathroom at the opposite end of the hall from my bedroom. My family's home is large, but that is typical where I live. I am a resident of Province 1, County 2, perhaps the most affluent place outside of the Capitol, also known by its ancient name, Dubh Linn. My county is one of three which border County 1, the location of the Capitol, but County 1 is not considered part of Province 1, for even the comfortable living afforded the people living in County 2 pales in comparison to luxurious lifestyles of those residing in the Capitol, or so I'm told.

I strip out of my bed clothes and get in the shower. A control panel in front of me has any number of settings, but I simply choose hot water with a basic soap and shampoo cycle. I'm in and out in five minutes. I step into a drier which quickly blows every last drop of moisture from my skin and hair. I wrap the towel around myself, and I head back to my room to get dressed. I feel too restless to be stuck in the house all day, and my family will not rise till at least noon, all except for my mother of course, she'll require more prep time before the reaping commences. I can't be sure if she'll go this year, though, not after everything that went down the previous year. Thoughts of my brother start to creep in again, and I snap myself out of it and put on my clothes. I don strong trousers and boots, an old, brown t-shirt and similarly-coloured leather jacket. I make my way out of the house without disturbing anyone.

I emerge to see a brilliant sunrise just peeking over the roofs of the houses opposite ours, and the flowers in our garden, and everyone else's in my estate, greet it with an almost audacious splash of colour, given that the buildings themselves are a very uniform grey in colour with little difference in layout. I head north towards the town centre. My town doesn't have a name, or at least not one that anyone living can recall, it just has an assigned number like everything else, Settlement 2. Once again, and you've probably guessed, the Capitol is Settlement 1, though, its denizens and government types prefer to refer to it as "City 1". I guess they can wallow in that particular pool of vanity without contest, as far as I'm aware, it is the only city to speak of in the whole nation of Paneire. That name instantly reminds me of that history lesson slash propaganda flick I'll have to endure at the reaping. Even before last year, I always found that the most irritating part.

As I proceed north, I notice a little more activity. A few drunks still trying to feel their way home after last night's revelries, it is not often they get a chance to drink so heavily outside of Saturday nights, Sunday being the only off-day. It's not long before I enter the circular centre of town, a wide expanse of cobbled ground where normally dozens of stalls and stores would be open, even by this early hour, but, of course, today is different. The silence is so refreshing that it's hard to bring myself to leave, but I need a better distraction than this so I head straight through the centre, continuing north past more homes and businesses until I'm at the town's edge. It's then I begin to run, hard.

I sprint down a dry, dirt path that rises and falls and twists with the uneven landscape north of town. I deftly avoid stones and briars and weeds that encroach upon it. There is already warmth in the sun's rays, and I feel my t-shirt sticking to my skin. As I exit a small copse of trees, my destination is revealed. Nestled in a small flat valley next to a river is the Training Grounds. It takes another two minutes hard sprinting to reach the gates and then, since they're locked, I have to scale an eight-foot stone wall. After dropping to the ground on the other side, I don't get back up. I pant and lay on my back as my chest rises and falls rapidly. It took fifteen minutes running to get here, and now I am sweating like a pig. I don't know why I bothered to shower.

Once I've recovered, I stand shakily and make my way around the massive training building. Inside are all sorts of courts, indoor tracks, target ranges, and even arenas for boxing, wrestling, and martial arts. That, too, is locked, however, so my only recourse is the outdoor ranges and the mock-up arena, the place where prospective tributes can get a taste of what it's like to actually be in the games. As I round the building and come upon the ranges, I am relieved to see that some of the weapons have not been returned indoors. I see several exotic looking knives, a broadsword, several short swords, a dozen or so throwing spears and last but not least, a bow. I take down the metal bow from its cradle along with a single arrow and go to the furthest target, two hundred and fifty yards out. I stand firm, one foot forward, I take the shot, and hit the bull's-eye dead centre. I do this a dozen more times, sprinting after every shot to retrieve the arrow and firing again. Despite my exertion, my accuracy does not diminish.

I'm what people call a Career. I actively train to fight so I am more prepared for the games than tributes from outlying counties. Here, in County 2, and in Province 1 in general, it is thought a great honour to participate in the games and so many volunteer. I hear in the three other provinces, tributes usually have to be chosen by random draw. That hasn't happened here in my lifetime. In fact, there are often so many volunteers that a random draw has to be done among them anyways. Even though I am a Career, I won't be volunteering this year. The pain of last year's games is still too fresh, and I'm not confident in my readiness anyways. I'll wait till my last year of being eligible to participate, when I'm eighteen, and then I'll decide. Chances are I wouldn't even get in if I did, I'd be in a draw with several dozen others who are all thinking along the same lines as me. I have to do it some time, though. It would bring great "disapproval" shall we say from my family and my fellow citizens if I didn't put my name in at least once.

After about an hour of target practice, I go to the obstacle range, losing both my jacket and t-shirt as the summer heat builds. I crawl under a net through the dusty earth, hop side to side through a track of tyres, scales nets, climbing walls and suspended ladders before swimming through a stagnant pool of grimy water. I come out back where I started cut, bruised, muddied and wet. That shower was really pointless. I take my boots off to empty them of water when I hear the dry grass behind me crackle a little. Before I can turn to face my assailant, he is upon me. I am pinned under him, and his forearm is pressed against my neck, choking me. I manage to bring my leg back up and deliver a kick into his side that makes him release me a moment, but a moment is all I need. I push him off and stand. I try to deliver another kick to his chest, but he catches my leg and flips me over. I roll to the side as he tries to pin me down again. He falls flat and this time, my kick lands true to his jaw. He's a lot bigger than me, though, and I fear I only angered him with this cheap shot. I stand again, ready to deliver a few punishing shots to his stomach when, in a lightning move, my opponent finds his feet, floors me with a kick to the throat, and, finally, levels a knife at me. I struggle to get my breath back when he says, "Not bad, Cat, at least you would've died with honour and not shamed our family."

"Oh fuck off, Joss."

Joss is my easy-going, joker of a brother, well, half-brother. We share the same mother, but his father, Darius, was long dead, a victim of the games. It was tragic really. My mother, Constance, had married young, at my age in fact, and had given her husband, who was six years older, three children. He had already participated in the games and had won, earning himself much wealth and prestige, making him a very desirable young man, as victors so often were. However, of all the women he could have had and many without the need of subsequently marrying them, he chose my mother, a then beautiful and gracious young girl of a modest background. He loved her, though, and gave her everything he could, which was quite a lot, but all she really wanted was children and a home to rear them in. Nothing it seemed could ruin this rosy picture until the Hunger Games came around, but these weren't just any games. This was the 75th Annual Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell, a special games where there was often an added twist to the selection process for tributes. In that year, the quirk was that the tributes had to be chosen from each province's existing pool of victors. They also decreed that there could be no volunteering, only random selection. They hoped against hope that out of Province 1's many victors that he would not be chosen, but worst came to worst, and he was forced to enter the games once more. This time, however, he did not return.

My mother was left widowed with three children and forced to leave her home, which was a house which could only be assigned to a victor of the games. Her own family supported her, though, and a few years later, she remarried to my own father, Cornelius. He often told me how lucky he was. He had lost hope when she had married Darius, and he had been in love with her his whole life. My mother had not noticed him until he had introduced himself as a prospective suitor. He fully admitted my mother only accepted his offer out of necessity. He was a man of means, owner of the best jewellers in all of County 2, and he had a respectable home where she could continue rearing her children instead of being passed off between relatives. My father, it seems to me, had more grace than my mother, for he accepted the sorry excuse for a marriage to a woman who might never love him back. Even now, after giving him two children, I sense nothing but formality between them, like they're going through the motions of a business arrangement. My father still holds out hope, though, and I pity him for it. I think my mother will only ever love one man, and he is lost to her.

With the sour expression on my face as my throat loosens, Joss moves in and bear-hugs me saying, "Awh, Cat, please don't be mad at me. Come on, let's kiss and make up." He puckers his lips at me mockingly, but I just push his face away. All I can think is how I hate that nickname. My name is Cato, Cat-o, not Cat. It's an annoying abbreviation that I hate, and Joss knows it. He gives up trying to plant one on me and joins me on the ground facing east to see the mountains of County4 on the horizon. He is twenty-seven, my oldest half-sibling, the victor of the 88th Hunger Games, and a mentor to all the Careers that come here and to Province 1's tributes. He has trained me, my two elder half-sisters, Leandra and Sidra, and my deceased brother, Ezio. I gulp at the thought of him. Joss, though often shallow and fond of merriment, could see right through me, know exactly what was bothering me, and without preamble, blurt it out. "You know Ezio wouldn't have wanted this for you."

"Wanted what, Joss?"

"Cat, look at yourself, you're half-naked, covered in dirt and sweat, cut and bruised and all in an effort to think of anything but your brother. It's been a year, you know."

"And what? I should just get on with it, is that it? Forget it ever happened?" I snap.

"No, you should always remember him, but the time for mourning is past. Now, instead of dwelling on his death, you should be celebrating his life by living yours, and if you must think of his passing, think of the fact that he died with honour in the games, that he brought pride to his county and his province."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather he was alive and well than dead with honour. That whole valour and pride thing is overrated."

"If you were anyone else, and we were anywhere else, I'd throw you a punch. Be careful, what you say, Cat, that loose tongue of yours will get you in trouble someday."

"Will it now?"

"You can bet on it. The prestige Province 1 has, and the comfortable living we all enjoy depends on amiable relations with the Capitol. We don't need troublemakers or activists. If you'd ever travelled through the other Provinces, you'd appreciate what co-operation with the Capitol affords you."

I'd forgotten that after his victory in the games, Joss had done a tour of the four provinces. He had brought back stories of wretched people living in poverty, their towns nothing but slums, and not one of them looking like they'd had a full belly in their lives, and all because a small proportion chose to be terrorists, actively seeking to undermine the Capitol's grip on Paneire. They are known as the 33s. There are only 32 counties in Paneire, but these people have no home, no permanent place of residence, and so travel and length and breadth of the country, committing acts of violence against mainly Capitol facilities but occasionally,they target people in the provinces they believe to be collaborators. It's a wonder to me how they manage it, though. Travel between the provinces by non-Capitol persons is strictly forbidden and each province is separated from the others by high electric fences that are patrolled regularly by Capitol peacekeepers. Even travel between counties within one's own province is strongly discouraged.

I reply, "I'm aware, Joss, you tell me often enough. You know I'm not stupid enough to say these things in town anyways."

"I dunno, man, you seem to grow dumber by the year. I think you're giving too much of your brain over to training."

"Says you, the man who trained from dawn to dusk right up until you volunteered for the games at sixteen and still does the same, and let's face it, you weren't the sharpest tool in the shed to begin with."

He slaps me right across the back of the head, hard. I wince for I think there's a cut there under my hair. He says, "Oh come on you girl's blouse, I didn't smack you that hard and besides, you deserved it. I mean seriously, you questioning my intelligence."

"Okay, so neither of us are intellectual greats, we just know a hundred and one ways to kill someone."

"True, Cato, I have to give you a heads-up about something."

I know this cannot be good, he called me by my full name. I nodded and said, "Hit me."

"I won't be mentoring anymore, ever."

This shocks me to no end. I always thought Joss lived for this stuff, and after his whole honour speech and maintaining decorum, I'm even more confused. I ask, "Why? You're the best mentor in the county, hell, probably the province."

"I know and if anyone askes, I'll deny I said it, but I'm broken up about Ezio, too. Not for the same reasons as you, and I still believe there is honour in the games, but the way Ezio died, it was horrible. I can't help but sometimes feel that all those things that happened to him were the Gamemakers' way of increasing the entertainment factor."

He has a point. The games are a televised event. Everyone across the country watches them, or are forced to in the more impoverished provinces. However, the masses, especially those in the Capitol, have to be kept interested, so when tributes aren't actively fighting, they throw in a firestorm, or a flood, or a roving pack of vicious predators to liven things up. Ezio had the misfortune to be the target of three separate Gamemaker ploys. He first encountered a pack of mutts, short for muttations, a name given to genetically engineered creatures conjured up by the Gamemakers. Ezio was a much better swordsman and at hand-to-hand combat than I am. He dispatched many of the mutts, which were weird dog/cat hybrids, with the efficiency of a butcher dicing and slicing a prime cut of meat. One of them sneaked up on him from behind and a good bite on his arm below the elbow. He killed it, but not before it took his forearm with it. He was in agony, but bore it remarkably well, even when he had to cauterise the stump that was his arm. He fought on, even taking down two other tributes in his maimed state. I guess he still had his good arm, that's all he needed. He then encountered a freak blizzard in what was supposed to be a summer meadow arena. The temperature was so far below zero that ice formed on his skin, and he ceased up, collapsing to the ground. The winter storm passed as quickly as it came, but then the forest ahead of him erupted in flame and a fiery wall engulfed him. It's the screams I remember most, how he roared and cried at the top of his lungs, begging for mercy that never came. It was a minute before he fell silent and disappeared into the inferno. The fire did not stop, however, and eight more tributes were consumed by it. It forced the remaining six tributes together to fight to the death until a girl from my own province was the only one left. After the games, the peacekeepers delivered nothing to us but an empty casket, there was nothing left of Ezio but ashes.

Being that Joss had been Ezio's mentor, I could see how this conflicted with his sense of honour and bravery. How could he encourage the tributes to be courageous when the Gamemakers might kill them off to increase ratings? I say, "Well, it might be that they're just upping the ante to get more Capitol folk watching. The hundredth Annual Hunger Games will be next year."

"Exactly why I don't wanna still be a mentor then. If this is what they're doing in the years leading up to it, imagine what it'll be like during the Quarter Quell."

I shudder at the thought. I'm glad I won't be volunteering until the year after. I can't imagine what horrible twist will be dealt to the misfortunate tributes next year. Joss asks, "Just so we're clear, you're not volunteering this year, are you?"

"No, I'm waiting till I'm eighteen, after the Quarter Quell."

"Okay, good, you are so not ready for it."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"I'm just saying, Cat, you may be a wiz with the bow and arrow and anything you can fire from a distance, it's when people get in close to you that you make mistakes. Your skills will only serve you if you're not ambushed or forced into close quarters with your enemy. Until you become more effective in that regard, don't put your name in."

"Okay, but what if close combat is something I'm just inherently bad at? I have to volunteer at least once."

"Then you better hope you're not chosen."

"Gee, you know, Joss, our conversations always make me feel warm and fuzzy inside."

"Hey, what are big brothers for?"

We both laugh hard as I shake my head. Many things could be said about Joss, and many have had a bad word for him down through the years, but one thing no one could ever say is that he is a bad brother or son. Our family mean everything to him and being his youngest sibling, I get at least twice the attention he gives to our mother or sisters. Sometimes that isn't necessarily a good thing; he does beat me up a lot, but having him to talk to does give me some small comfort when it comes to Ezio. Ezio and I were like twins, inseparable best buds, we even looked almost exactly alike, except that he was a shade taller and had longish, wavy blonde hair where I have straight, short-cut hair. I find it hard to make friends, especially with others my own age, so losing Ezio was losing my only connection to the world. When Ezio was alive, Joss was my invincible big brother who I envied but found very hard to approach, despite his jocular manner. Leandra, my eldest sister has been, is, and always will be a raging bitch. She's as tough as nails and highly opinionated, but rubs everyone the wrong way and regards her younger siblings with disdain and impatience. Sidra is exactly her opposite, a quiet, unassuming soul who wouldn't hurt a fly but is constantly engrossed in her studies of one field or the other. I really don't understand half of what she says. My father is good for a chat or a yarn, but he talks a lot about his trade which is jewellery-making, something I have little interest in, even though the production of luxury foods and trinkets and the like is the main industry of Province 1. My mother, as I've said, does not really love my father, something I resent her for. I know she adored Darius, but my father is a kindly, generous man at least deserving of her respect. I guess I'm short on companions but after the reaping, I'm hoping I'll be down a few enemies. I ask, "So any idea how many will be volunteering this year?"

"You know them all as well as I do, Cat. Don't worry, I imagine at least one of them won't return home."

He's of course referring to the Careers Gang. There are four of them, two girls, two boys, all eighteen who the other Careers have rallied around for years because they are the oldest in town. I don't know how it came to be that way, or even why they weren't led around by older Careers in the past. All I know is they formed their own little clique, and you are less than nothing unless you're a part of it. Growing up, I was always the weird, quiet one so I suppose I never made the cut, well, not that they informed me per se, but they did act as though I didn't exist until I started Career training. From then on, it ensued, the insults, the jeering, the sabotage, the constant challenges where someone always cheated or intervened if it seemed like I was getting the upper hand. Ezio was with me though, having started training with them when he was five but never joining their malicious little group. He helped me, protected me a lot.

I wondered back then if it was all worth it, me training for the games that was, yeah it is a great honour just to participate, and you are treated like a god if you won, but Province 1 is the only place where it was possible to stay out of the games with almost absolute certainty. I could have, but my mother insisted we train, especially with the legacy left by our own father; he was a Career but was never selected. However, my suspicions are it is Darius's legacy she is interested in preserving. It isn't enough that Joss, his actual son, and, in fact, his daughter, Leandra, who's also a victor, carried it on. I think in some ways she's reliving her life with him through us, having children who are victors of the games, only last year it backfired, horribly. Anyhow, I trained, and whilst I floundered for a long time in hand-to-hand combat and fencing, give me something to shoot, point at a target, and I'll hit it, whether it be with knife or spear or, my personal favourite, arrow. That advantage I had kept me going through the years, especially the past year without Ezio. In fact, I'd become even more engrossed in every aspect of training since his death, even winning a number of bouts with my former bullies. In the end, it might only be a temporary distraction from my grief, I might never be selected, but some part of me wants to be so that I might not come back, then I wouldn't have to worry about anything, my sorrow least of all. Joss interrupts my reverie, "Well, I'm rooting for you."

"Huh?"

"To lose a few tormentors, hopefully, they all get selected, and some other Province wins this year."

"You're right, you know, this conversation really isn't for town."

"Speaking of which, you know it's half past noon."

"What? I've to assemble in the centre by half one. Why didn't you say anything?"

Shrugging, he says, "I kinda wanted to see you sweat a little more…and run through town bare-chested and filthy."

"You bastard, wait, where's my t-shirt?" I stare at him accusingly.

"What? You're accusing me? You're good-natured big brother who only ever looks out for you."

"You were planning this before you even tackled me, weren't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Whatever, I have to get back, I'm gonna have to shower for at least half an hour, and it's a fifteen-minute sprint back."

"Hey, I might have done you a favour. Maybe when you go running through town like that, the girls in the gang might look at you differently."

"Fat chance, I gotta go…"

"Wait, I'll run with you. I've to be there, too, you know."

As we leave the training centre down the path, running hard, Joss says, "By the way, you know how I stepped down as mentor?"

"Yeap."

"Well, Leandra is my replacement."

I nearly trip myself up and fall flat on my face at those words. I look at him imploringly, begging him to laugh and say just kidding but instead, he says, "Sorry."

"Ah shit!"