Prologue
President Snow rarely addressed his people, there was a customary speech before each Hunger Games, but that did it for him. It wasn't quite that he disliked his subjects, more that he preferred to remain above them and not give them any silly notions that he was some kind of benevolent dictator. The people of the Capitol ruled and the people of the districts followed, this was how it had always been, and fear was vital to this order of man that seemed so natural. Since the war began, Coriolanus Snow found that he was giving speeches and taking a personal hand in things more often than he was used to. As a matter of fact, he stood at that precise moment at his podium, ready to address the awaiting masses of the Capitol.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, "This is the Seventy-Fifth year since the uprising against the Capitol and the loyal citizens of Panem..." His low, raspy tone brought with a great deal of anticipation but he made no effort to raise his voice or cause a ruckus, his intention was only to inform. "The Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games is soon to begin, in the twelve Districts of Panem the Reapings are due to begin in a mere two days time…" This announcement was met by raucous applause from the Capitol citizens, Snow pressed on. "This year, I am proud and pleased to announce an amendment to the charter of the Games. As everyone knows well, our foolish enemies to the north, and on shores overseas, have recently been dealt a stinging defeat by the great people of Panem." This was not a simple case of propaganda, in a short campaign in Canada, multiple defeats had been handed down to the combined forces of Panem's European and Canadian enemies. "Hundreds of prisoners are being kept here in the Capitol, and it is these prisoners that will join the ranks of our brave tributes this year. Our despicable enemies are losing this war and have pressed even their children and womenfolk into the service of their armies." Of course, this wasn't entirely true, with the Great War, the world's population had declined dramatically and most countries still remaining had no choice but to open their ranks to everyone who would fight. Panem was no exception but there was no need for the Capitol to know that. "Therefore," Snow continued, "One male and one female tribute of the regulation age will be reaped from the captured armies of our enemies to take part in this year's Hunger Games!"
This inspired rapturous applause, cheering, laughing and clapping spread like a tide over the assembled population. President Snow smiled a slight, self-congratulatory grin as he stepped back from the podium and the spotlights began to dim. He coughed as he made the slow return to his car, sputtering blood onto his crisp, white handkerchief. A darkly-outfitted servant stepped forward to offer Snow a white rose which was accepted and hastily thrust through the button-hole of his jacket as he stepped into the comfortable embrace of the presidential automobile.
Chapter One
So far, all had been going smoothly. The reapings hadn't turned out too badly, as expected, Districts One through Five had offered up Careers which had trained their whole lives for the opportunity. District Eleven had presented an interesting showing, their male was eighteen, strong and fierce. Their female, on the other hand, was only twelve and tiny, speed and stealth being her key advantages. District Twelve had a volunteer, the first in the history of that District. The others were mostly as expected, random tributes reaped through sheer bad luck or perhaps too much reliance on the tesserae.
In the prisoner pens of the Capitol, a second reaping had begun. Just under six hundred prisoners of age twelve to eighteen had been taken into an ignominious captivity following the fighting in Canada. There had been a so-called 'Parade of Disgrace' the day prior in which all of the prisoners had been forced to march through the main streets of the Capitol to the place where the reaping was to take place. The prisoners had spent the night in that open plaza, surrounded by a large patrol of peacekeepers, armed with their rifles and outfitted in those pure white uniforms which the foreign soldiers had grown to hate so much. Unfortunately, the night had been remarkably cold for the time of year and the rumour was, although nobody really knew, that several of the prisoners had died from illness or the conditions, which were squalid even with the open space.
As dawn broke, the peacekeepers were replaced by a fresh group of guards and the prisoners were roused from their restless slumber with kicks and shouts. There was no fighting, the prisoners having long since been broken by torture or repressed by their harsh treatment. Beatings were common and, in fact, a trio of peacekeepers with short whips trundled through the pack of captives, administering singular lashes, seemingly at random. At the back of the plaza, a pair of English officers had managed to pull the British and Canadian prisoners into a lacklustre formation of five ranks with seventy prisoners in each rank. One officer, by some amazing stroke of luck, still brandished a frayed swagger stick which seemed to have seen better days. His attempts to inform the peacekeepers on the Geneva Conventions and the 2020 Washington Convention on Warfare were met with laughs and kicks. The other prisoners, from a variety of European nations, crowded around the raised platform, which was rapidly becoming populated with peacekeepers and officials. It wasn't long before they recognised the white beard and haggard features of President Coriolanus Snow himself, who took a dominant space at a eagle-crested podium.
"Prisoners," He declared, with neither gusto nor conviction, "You have no doubt been informed as to why you are here. Due to your age, and your foolishness in fighting against Panem and the Capitol, you have been selected to compete in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games… Two tributes, one male and one female, will be selected from your ranks. The floor is open to volunteers, of course..." Snow smiled as his address came to an end, not content in speaking to those who truly were below him, "And may the odds be ever in your favour…" He slyly announced, shrinking back from the podium and leaving the floor to his outrageously-outfitted officials.
A man dressed in a blueberry suit and with slicked up burgundy hair stepped up to the podium, brandishing under each arm a transparent dome filled with paper, there was no need for an explanation as to what they meant. "I am Julius Compass, the escort for the tributes from District One," he explained in an accent that but the English soldiers at ease. "And I have the honour to reap the tributes from the French forces." There was an audible sigh from the masses. No drumroll could have rivalled the tension visible on the faces of those prisoners from the French Second Army, captured mainly in a battle just north of District Nine. Compass' pale hand drooped into one of the bowls and withdrew a slip of paper. He opened it slowly and struggled with the names, "Phillipe Fabre!"
Wordless, the Frenchman, a strong looking teen of at least sixteen years, stepped up the concrete steps to the platform and stood beside the eccentric escort expectantly. Compass smiled at the captive and reached into the other bowl. The name read was "Elise Lyon," which Julius had slightly less trouble with. She too seemed to be quite fit, or at least as fit as one could expect a poorly-fed fifteen year old to be, after suffering through three weeks of captivity. His face a picture of serene calmness, Julius thanked the crowd and led his tributes away, presumably to meet the District One tributes that he managed.
The selection process, or 'reaping', continued in this manner across the German Third Division, the Canadian Army, the Belgian Flemish Division and the Norwegian First Brigade. From these once brave ranks came no volunteers, the tributes being picked and led away by their 'escorts' a title that caused snickers from the Anglo forces. At least until a woman dressed in dark pink strode forward to the podium, her puffy blonde curls personalised with a huge pink flower. She introduced herself, cheerfully, as Effie Trinket, and at her beckoning the roughly three hundred prisoners from the British Expeditionary Force edged forward. Their officers led by example, the two young men advanced confidently, despite the clear anxiety in their eyes. Before their reaping began, the escort insisted on displaying a video which was projected onto the tall screen behind her. It became quickly obvious that it was pure propaganda, the stern voice of Panem's President preaching about past treasons and long-gone rebellions.
Trinket shrugged her shoulders and smiled patronisingly as the video came to an end, the assembled ranks knew full well what that meant by now. All heads turned to the five ranks of tattered uniforms, of sweaty, injured, dirty bodies, of men and women, boys and girls broken by four months of gruelling warfare and starving captivity. There was no sadness but perhaps a hint of pity in Effie Trinket's eyes as she looked down on this mass of filthy khaki, with her cheery voice she called out, "As is polite, ladies first!" Her red fingernails and pale hands wormed their way seductively into the bowl. "Alex Kimberly," She declared, calmly, waiting for the doubtlessly terrified prisoner to make her way forward. After a few moments of anticipation, which must have felt like months to some, a girl made her meandering way to the front of the formation from the rear rank. She looked up tearfully at the officer, still brandishing his swagger stick and gave him a respectful yet broken salute before slowly making her way up the bare concrete stairs. Pleased, Effie Trinket beckoned her over with a hand and bade the prisoner of war stand on her left side.
"Now…" Effie, suffering from no loss of fervour, declared, "For the boys!" Her hand dipped again into the bowl and she called out, "Terrance MacMillan!" Once again there were those two seconds of anticipation, this time combined with a cacophony of sighs and coughs. A great big bear of a man in the front rank stepped forward and began to make his way to his commander, intent on giving the same respectful farewell that his comrade did but three minutes beforehand. This time the gesture was denied. "As you were, Sergeant Major." The officer ordered, simply.
He was met with a surprised, "But, sir!" From MacMillan, but nonetheless, he nodded to that big, muscular NCO and MacMillan stepped back into the ranks.
"I volunteer!" The officer called out, to widespread shock. There was a great deal of whispering, but no man stepped out of the file or tried to talk the officer out of it.
"Well…" Effie said, somewhat taken aback, she had not expected volunteers from this beaten bunch of foreign soldiers, if soldiers they could even be called. "It appears we have a volunteer…" She spoke on as if being recorded. Not though the prisoners were aware, of course, they were being recorded. "Interesting events in Justice Square," she mused, "The first volunteer from our prisoners of war." Calmly , yet with a clear flicker of sad reflection in his eyes and a look of resignation on his face, the officer walked up the stairs and came face to face with the exceeding decadent Effie Trinket. He was led, slightly forcefully, over to where his subordinate was standing and Effie asked him his name, her voice just as cheerful as it had been throughout the whole affair. "Richard Nicholson, Royal Sussex Yeomanry," he said quickly and defeatedly.
Playing things up for the cameras, Effie quized him further, "And who is Mister MacMillan to you?" She asked inquisitively.
"My Sergeant Major." Nicholson replied, plainly. Effie had no means to challenge that as she, along with many people in Panem, had no understanding of European military terminology, and certainly, no understanding of the British military culture that forced Nicholson, a Captain, to volunteer on behalf of his Sergeant Major.
Either way, the matter was over, and Effie suggested a round of applause. The suggestion was met by a haggard salute from the British and Canadian ranks, and apathetic silence from the mass of European prisoners. "Well, here we are then, the tributes from the… Gallant… British Expeditionary Force." Gallant was perhaps the only word Effie could have used, complimenting Panem's foreign enemies was a dangerous game, but nobody could doubt their bravery and it was unlikely that such an epithet as Gallant would harm her career. She continued with what must have been routine for her, perhaps for as long as ten years. "Go on then, you two, shake hands now…" Such a breach of discipline had been allowed in the foriegn forces, Nicholson would be damned if such a transgression would take place in the British forces, he raised his hand in a stern salute and his female counterpart, Alex, did the same. Effie deemed that good enough and finished off, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour…"
