Prometheus, son of one of the most important capitol officials, was currently at the dinner table, about to break the bad news to his family that he currently clutched in his hand, in the form of a precarious red letter, swathed with an abundance of sickening, rose perfume.

"Come on, sit down." His twin sister, Proppy told him, her gray eyes on her food, completely oblivious to the dark cloud on the horizon that was steadily approaching.

Prometheus hesitantly sidled up to the table and sat down beside his sister, trying no to glance down at the envelope on his hand.

Proppy flicked her auburn hair out of her eyes and glared at her brother, "What?" She snapped, suddenly irritated, "I know you're hiding something, spit it out!" She shoved a forkful of salad into her mouth without taking her eyes off her twin.

He sighed and placed the red envelope on the table and their mother, a hunched over middle-aged woman drew in a gasp of shock.

"What's that?" Proppy questioned curiously, her annoyance gone as quickly as it had come, "We barely ever get mail!"

Disbelievingly, their mother shook her head, "It can't be possible..." She murmured, "It just can't be..."

"What?"

The dark cloud approached quicker and quicker. Suddenly it was above their house and the area around them. It started to rain. Proppy looked at the letter, she only had to read:

Dear the Swain family,

I'm sorry to say that your son/grandson/brother got chosen to enter the 79th Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favour.

"W-what did you do?" Proppy asked.

"Nothing." Prometheus said, eager to change the subject. "I thought the Hunger Games were for the District people not the Capitol people."

"Well," Proppy began, "What if the District's wanted revenge? What if they wanted Capitol people to die? Even though it was President Snow who was evil not us!"

Prometheus stood still for a long time, his dark brown eyes staring off into the distance, like a pitiless hourglass, slowly spirally away. Finally he got up and said, "Well I guess each and every individual tribute wasn't responsible for the rebellion either...", in a low voice, and letting it hang. For a moment there was only silence, and the gentle pattering of rain - so peaceful on such a day like this.

And then Proppy burst into tears.

I stand in the beautiful garden, observing the thorny tendrils of the plant I was named after snaking through the dark shade of the bushes and the frilly white flower heads blooming from between the leaves. Fresh raindrops roll off each of the bushes' leaves and splatter on the grass underfoot, staining my new shoes with mud.

I remember that my grandfather often took me to this garden when I was younger. He'd sit me down on the grass and sing to me an old lullaby that's been passed down through the Snow family for generations.

Nighttime, nighttime,
Little roses grow.
Pale in the moonlight,
White roses glow.

Nighttime, nighttime,
Lay down your sleepy head.
Roses grow to the sky,
White roses turn red.

Ever since the rebellion ended, the now victorious Districts hate me because of who my grandfather was. That's hardly fair, really. What did I do. He was just carrying on the tradition of the Hunger Games, he didn't create them.

I walked through the house, and headed to my bedroom. Ready to caress the soft silky sheets that were my duvet, and rest in the soft friendly world within, away from all the current issues of Panem.

On the way I see a small white note, my heart beats fast and I feel my breath stick in my throat. When it unfolds, I feel the breath refuse to make it's way out, and I gasp in shock at it.

Dear Rose Snow,

We regret to inform you, that you, out of many fortunate children, are to compete in the tradition of the Hunger Games. Failure to attend the Mock Reaping will result in harsh penalties, and possibly death. May the odds be ever in your favour.

Regards,

The Districts and President Paylor

I shouldn't be surprised, really. I am after all, the granddaughter of the former president, but do they really think that this is going to solve something? It won't change the fact that they started the first Rebellion and forced us to keep them in line with the Hunger Games.

I crush the note in my fist and throw it into the wastepaper basket. I won't give them the satisfaction of giving them the chance to bury me in penalties. I am, after all, the granddaughter of President Snow. I will stay strong though all of this.

At least, that's what I plan.