CHAPTER I

I could count the ways I hated my father before breakfast, on one hand, with little to no help from my Avox, Damien. 10 years was a long time, long enough to practice my little recital till it gleamed. I do it out of principle, out of habit, if not anything else. I count them on my left hand, yanking each finger back as I do until they protest. Four points are my own. The fifth isn't. I linger on the last. It gives me time for my other favourite morning ritual. Counting the ways I hate the great state of Panem.

From across the room, Damien watches me, wary. He isn't my first Avox. And, at the rate I'm going, he's unlikely to be the last. 7 Avoxes in 10 years. Not bad going for someone considered irrelevant. He's waiting to see what I'll do. Watching, and waiting. It's all he can do. Then I feel them. Boring into the back of my head, daring me to do something stupid, are a second set of eyes. Cold, hard, cruel eyes. Grey eyes. His eyes. Waiting for me to finish.

"…because he is a traitor to the great state of Panem." I finish. My voice doesn't falter, but deepens, low and deadly. Wouldn't want him to think I was easy prey. There is a long, drawn out hiss of air rushing into the room. The metallic click as the door slides back and the faint squelch as the lock re-engages. And then the soft, deliberate tread of brogues, heels clicking on the Rehabilitation centre floor.

"Still not interested Hawthorne." I keep my voice flat, uncompromising. He quickly cuts me off.

"I can tell exactly what's going through your mind, Thrice." I feel his hands clasp my shoulders, hard. "And I have much more, interesting, news for you than your imminent surrender." He bends down, his hot breath tickling the back of my ear. "Albeit less, exciting." I feel bile rise in my throat. The bastard actually thinks he can win me over. I ball my hands in to tight fists. My knuckles burn white under the pressure. Damien gives a low grunt. Instead of drawing back, Hawthorne lifts a hand up. And presses a kiss to my cheek. "You're still losing." That's it! I turn, jumping to my feet, and the chair clatters to the floor. I swing my fist at him. He catches it with ease.

"Calm down Thrice. That's an order." I glare at him, narrowing my eyes. He twists my fist. A sharp flash of pain shoots up my arm. His grey eyes mock me. "You should wait until you hear the good news. In fact, you're about to find yourself rather in demand." His smile widens. I dread the answer. "You see, by the grace of our great Panem, we're due to have another Hunger Games."

I'm in shock. My features go through the motions. My eyes widen, my mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He smiles triumphantly. "My offer looks a little more tempting now, doesn't it?"

"But, how?"

"22 tributes from eleven districts, rebels, troublemakers, children of the old regime... The usual." He doesn't need to tell me about District 12. Their 'troublemakers' were obliterated back in Capitol days, along with most of the rest of District 12. "It'll be fair, sure. A whole glass reaping ball for you and Miss Hesse."

Oh God. I hadn't thought of that. The only two eligible female tributes in District 2 were me, and Marilla Hesse. That gave me a 50:50 chance of ending up in the arena. "You have 4 hours, Reaping begins at 12 sharp." He shrugs. But his grin doesn't move. "Your choice." And he leaves. The room seals again.

He's right. All this time, waiting, and waiting to be told I could leave. And now there was an escape route. Just not the one I was hoping for. For 10 years, 10 years, I have sat in at least one of these rooms. Suddenly, these 10 years don't seem so long. 10 years ago, I would've been about to turn eight, too naïve, too young to do anything but watch when the rebels came.

There were hordes of them. Never in my wildest imaginations had I ever seen so many people. Their faces were twisted in grim grimaces. My memory of the day is broken, fractured, into little pieces that I can still make sense of. The roar of an avalanche in the distance. The echo of gunfire, growing closer, closer. Peacekeepers running. My mother screaming at us, that we had to get out, her bright blue hair twitching in some manic hysteria. Her thrusting me into the arms of my Avox, Melusine. My brothers' faces. Fletch's, twisted with determination. Morty's blank and shocked.

We ran. The pavement cracked and ruptured under our bare feet. To the only place we thought safe. The Justice Building. Marble and glass, arcing out of the main square, its head breaking out of the concrete pavement. The fighting had ravaged it, its tip hung limply, held only together by steel string and sheer willpower. But it's the only place we've got. And it's there, in the mayor's office, we watch the Nut fall.

That part of my memory is clear enough. People running. People screaming. My father appeared, dishevelled, from a door in the base of the mountain, his plumed cap hanging limply off his head. It doesn't matter; they all knew who he was. They caught him pretty quick. A tall, olive skinned, dark haired stranger approached him. The sunset bathed them in a bloody glow. I knew what was going to happen. Melusine didn't even bother to cover my eyes. We both knew. The man cocked his gun, and shot him. Straight through his head. And Snow's faithful hound was dead.

The stranger turned then, as if he felt us watching him. His grey eyes glared at me, boring through my head. I didn't learn his name until later. Hawthorne. Gale, bloody, Hawthorne. He gestured at the building. Downstairs, there was a clatter of furniture hastily flung aside, the fizz of a fuse lit. The world trembled, there was an almighty bang as the door was thrown off its hinges. The hoarse voices that hollered for back-up were quickly overwhelmed.

Melusine thrust me behind her. The door quivered. And bowed inwards. She couldn't scream. She was an Avox. But the sound she made was much worse. A gargling, raspy wheeze. And they stabbed her. They stabbed her 10 times. It was my turn to scream. They were coming closer, closer. Their nostrils flared, their eyes narrowed and bulged.

I panicked, and threw myself out the window. Straight onto a mattress, and straight into the clutches of the great state of Panem. And of Gale Hawthorne, watching me fall onto that mattress, smiling that grim, bitter smile of his.

Sometimes, when it is late at night, and I can't sleep, I can feel their eyes still leering at me from the shadows, their rough hands grasping at me. In the cruellest sense of irony, I practically owe my life as I know it to Gale Hawthorne, or, at least my innocence. Which half explains why he is so damn keen to be the one who takes it away from me.

I pause. His offer. Yes. 4 hours to decide whether or not I want to end up as one of Hawthorne's 'girls'. Or rather whether or not I want to survive the oncoming weeks.

Marilla Hesse was only 4 when the rebels took over, caught as her parents attempted to smuggle her across the District borders, to where, I still wasn't sure. She'd proceeded to spend these 10 years blossoming into a sullen, washed-out girl. Which still leaves her further up the social ladder than me.

I try to think, to clear my mind from distractions, but nothing comes. Decision wise, it's black and white, her or me. Morally, though, I'm screwed. There's nothing even remotely morally right about handing over a young, if somewhat petulant, girl to a self-confessed 'professional philanthropist'.

Another Avox arrives, slipping in through the hissing glass door with a dress piled in her arms. It's all for show. They're liars, all of them. They're no better than the Capitol, this all exists for the exact same reason it did before. To remind everybody of their place. To keep everyone in line. For the benefit, and for the glory, of the great State of Panem. My mouth twists into a wry smile as I watch her deposit the clothes in my bathroom, then retreat back outside with a wary look.

Her name is Nasia. And she was, at one point in time, my friend. Now she just watches me, mistrustfully and angrily, both of us knowing full well the reason why one of us talks and the other doesn't, why one of us is captive, and the other is almost free.

I glare at her. She returns it in kind. 'Judas.' We think in unison.

I shower in an empty communal shower block, though it's a long time since it's actually been communal. When they first cooped us up, it was hard to move through the remnants of the old regime, now, it's silent. Everyone has left. Gale Hawthorne has either assimilated them, or assassinated them.

I scrub as hard as I can with the rough ended soap, attempting to take the dirt out from under my skin, the circles out from under my eyes. I just succeed in turning myself a rather questionable shade of pink. From the veil of steam, Nasia reappears. She gives me nothing but the grace of a contemptuous smirk, and immediately starts working over me with soap. Rougher soap. Soap with the texture of fresh sandpaper. And she relishes in my discomfort.

I bite my lip, holding back a sarcastic retort, trying not to think of the ex-friend at my feet. Even when she's finished, she avoids my eyes. Which suits me just fine.

Everything in here is rough, hard-edged and utilitarian, even the towels. It's certainly nothing like what it used to be, but then, I doubt anything here is like what it used to be. Nasia hands me my dress, and I yank it on over my head, taking no heed of her tongue-less cluck of disapproval.

The dress is clearly meant to be ironic. It's old style, Capitol style, with a high empire waistline that clenches tight around my body, uncomfortably tight. The top half is ruffled, v-neck, with dainty shell buttons that lead to the belt around my waist. It's also flower-print. And I hate flower-print. The bottom is black, fortunately, and flares outwards, finishing just above my knee. She tears at me hair, forcefully pulling at it and brushing it into low side French braid before pinning in some faux orchids, gleefully taking every opportunity to stick me with their pins.

No love lost here then. As she stabs me with the last pin, she retreats quickly, and silently, back into the complex.

Now it's my turn. I walk back to my cell, listening to the click-clack of my heels and feeling the way they pinch uncomfortably tight onto my feet. All I can think, all I've got left to think is that my ten years were for nothing. Ten years doing time in prison cell 561, Complex 13, District 2. And it was all for this.

I shake myself. The games could be a way out, couldn't they? If only I could see who my eventual opponents are.

I round the corner, and sit myself squarely in the front of my cell, glaring angrily at the floor. I don't want to be a tribute. But I don't want to be a whore either.

Gale Hawthorne stands outside now, uniform freshly pressed and starched, but still smelling for all the dry cleaning that is done, like smoke and silver. His grey eyes mock me. Tribute, or traitor? Close to death, or next to dead?

A memory strikes me then, hazy and rose-tinted through years of forgetfulness and lack of use. But a memory it is, one of my father. A man of few words and even fewer admonishments. It makes me smile.

I look up, and meet his eyes. Grey on grey. I have my answer. I stand up, and he opens the cell door. I listen to it hiss and wheeze as it disengages for the last time, before I take his hand in mine.

"I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees."