Ingrid Crayle:
There used to be 74 of us before the Second War. Oh, the Second War. Fire, ashes. Comets of fire that streaked across the ebony sky, setting ablaze the cotton mills that littered District Eight. They've been rebuilt; now they're ugly, decrepit little shacks authorities dared to call labor conditions. Oh, screw that.
The only time my heart gets so consumed with euphoria is when I visit the Capitol, leading my two lambs behind me to the stockyard. Then, they get cut down at the Bloodbath, a knife sticking out of their throats. All because of one mistake, one accident that left the Arena: me.
It was the 76th Anniversary of the Hunger Games, although it had been three whole years since the Quarter Quell. The Capitol was harsh, brutal and took every chance they had to throw the Districts into terror. First it was the lack of food, then the water dried up and then they started the killing. Thousands of my people slaughtered just to prove a point. And to further demonstrate the Capitol's untouchable power, they threw me into the Arena. They launched us into that wicked, horror-show they call reality television. Oh, yeah, sure. Reality, is it? I'll show you real when I take my rapier and shove it up your一 nevermind.
The Gamemakers were determined to show us their unquenchable thirst for blood. Did you Careers think you were invincible? Nopity-nope, we'll drop you down into a ravine that ends nowhere. Did you Threes think you were so smart? Nopity-nope, we'll burn you alive until you're nothing but a charred pile of meat. Did you Eights think you could provide your treasonous armies with soldier wardrobe and get away with it? Nopity-nope, we're going to send a pack of ravenous fox hounds after you until they tear the flesh off your bones. It was revealed to me that the Gamemakers had planned for no Victor to be enlisted that year. Little did they know that tiny, afraid, soft-spoken girl from Eight had shoved her partner to the foxes until she managed to evade them, then cut down after their stomachs were so full that they couldn't attack properly. So, when Caesar Flickerman announced the conclusion of the 76th Hunger Games without any Victor and Ingrid Crayle crawled out of the trench she dug herself in, the looks on the faces of every official was priceless. It was also priceless when they choked on their own blood after eating that delicious roasted duck President Snow offered them at the Afterparty.
So I sat there, playing with my thumbs as the Mayor droned on and on and on and on. And on, about how everyone one of us little sheep should strain our backs and bow to our beloved Capitol. Well, screw that. When the Escort of the 100th Hunger Games pulled the names out of the large, crystal bowls一 I didn't bother to look.
