If you're reading this, it means you were interested in my prologue enough that you wanted to read Chapter One. Or...you went to the wrong chapter by accident. In either case, welcome! I hope you enjoy my story, and if you do, please drop a review. I have a policy of always reviewing an author's story if they review one of mine. If you want to be notified on every chapter will I upload it, follow the story. Thanks! This is my interpretation of Annie's eventual insanity. This is not a love story. This does not have a happy ending. This is the tragedy of Annie Cresta, the mad girl from District Four.
CHAPTER ONE-
CHOSEN
Out of nowhere, I sense danger.
A spear is thrown from behind me. I hear the intake of breath from my assailant, the rustle of clothing, the whistling as the weapon flies through the air. I don't even need to look behind me. I'm already on the ground, lithe, agile, feral. My back is arched and my limbs are outstretched, ready to flee or fight for my life. Jerking my neck to the side, I see the javelin has missed me by an inch.
I clench my core and kick my legs violently to spin around to face my threat. I get a glimpse, just a glimpse, of a mane of blonde hair before she retreats in the shadows behind a tree.
As I get to my feet, I take out a small knife. It's the only weapon I was able to get. Heart thudding, my sweaty fingers grasp the handle.
My eyes sweep around the forest, soaking up as much information as possible. It's too much to assume that my attacker has fled, no, she is still hunting me. I need to make the next move.
The smallest of things alerts me to her presence: a crackle of an autumn leaf, brittle and crisp. I race around to the tree, hearing her panicked breath as she readies another weapon. I sense fear. She fumbles as she takes out a spear. Jabbing it at me, she darts her eyes around as she looks for escape.
But the arena doesn't have an escape option.
I sidestep the weapon easily. In one fluid motion, I dart to my left, duck under the lethal tip of the spear, spin around to get into the right position and stab violently with my knife. With a jolt, I feel the knife penetrate her.
The girl looks down in shock at the protruding knife. She collapses, unraveling like a doll that lost her stuffing. In almost slow motion, she hits the ground. There's no scream, no crying, no whimpering for mercy. Just the quiet lack of breath as she descends into the darkness, until she doesn't move at all.
A cannon fires, signaling victory. I've won; I've beaten her. Another tribute is dead. Dead.
Just then, the dead girl opens her eyes and scowls.
"Impressive, " remarks my combat trainer, "You took Monica down in only seventeen seconds."
I grin as I take off my sparring gear. "Thanks."
"I would've won," grumbles Monica as she picks herself off the ground, "The spear was just a little too heavy; I wasn't used to it." She takes off the protective vest that guarded her from harm and then jimmies the knife out and hands the blunted weapon back, handle first.
"Well, you won't have custom-made weapons in the Hunger Games," he says, "You take what you get. Which in this case wasn't that much."
Monica doesn't look very happy, but she grudgingly holds out her hand. "Good match."
I shake it firmly. "You too."
"Take a five minute break, you've earned it." My trainer says to the pair of us.
We gratefully take large gulps of water from some bottles provided for us as he unlocks the door to the real world. Slowly, we walk from the fake trees and rocks and dirt and soil of the room into the cold had surface of the gymnasium. As we step out from the simulated arena, he seals the door behind us to keep in the humidity of the fake forest. I take a breath of fresh air-conditioned air of the Academy. Behind me lies an opaque white dome; it's one of the many domes that are scattered around like giant pimples on the surface of the ground. They're easily-accessible simulations, places to experience every type of habitat possible.
I am in the main gymnasium of the Academy, the elite school of the Hunger Games. All around me, kids as young as five and as old as eighteen play with dangerous weapons and learn quintessential survival techniques. The dimly lit environment is home to everything needed for training: trainers to teach us, simulations of every terrain imaginable, students to practice with, detailed guides for edible flora and fauna, agility courses, and of course, weapons.
The full name is the Bogard Academy for the Physically Elite, but everyone in Four calls it the Academy. Two hundred children of all ages learning every skill necessary for the Hunger Games, learning how to hunt, how to kill, how to earn sponsors, and most importantly, how to win.
Outside of my district, it's called Career Camp.
"After your break, meet me at the desert simulation." The trainer says to us. Today is a combat simulation day for me, where I train to fight in a variety of terrain to prepare me for the real arena.
Monica and I nod assent as the trainer walks away.
"Have you had him before?" I ask.
"Can't say I have." Monica says. The Academy switches up partners and trainers every few days. That means I train with different teachers who teach different things and spar with different people. It's supposed to make it easier for students to adapt to new challenges and to evaluate new threats faster and better. And it works; I have learned a variety of skills from trainers and, most importantly, fought against many other students to gain insight on battle strategy.
Monica and I met yesterday when we started to spar. We've fought time and time again with differing weapons and terrains. Days like this are my favorite: no route memorization of poisonous flora or bland archery practice, but just cold, hard, heart pumping, adrenalizing, invigorating, exciting violence.
I swing my arms back and forth to keep blood flowing. It's not often that I get breaks, so I have to be careful not to get too rested; I need to be ready to go in a moment's notice.
Just before Monica and I are about to go back to the simulation rooms, this time to fight in the atrocious heat of the desert, a tap on the shoulder distracts me.
It's Scylla; victor of the 53rd Hunger Games and head trainer at the Academy. She's an impressive specimen. Just over six feet tall with wider shoulders than the average man and wiry muscles laced down her forearms. She has skin the color of chocolate; which is very rare in District 4. Her hair is styled in a no-nonsense crew cut. She'd probably be beautiful, if she'd ever stop frowning for once.
Which she's doing right now.
"Atticus would like to see you in his office. Now." she says, folding her arms across her chest.
A tingling feeling emerges. Is this what I think this is?
"But she has to pract-"
Monica only gets halfway through her protest before Scylla cuts her off with a curt reply: "I said, now."
"Now?" I ask, rather stupidly.
"Now."
Monica glares at me with what can only be described as jealously. I don't blame her one bit. If the situations were reversed, I would probably do the same thing. We may laugh and joke around as we train, but at the end of the day, Monica and I are competing for the same prize.
A few minutes later, I am sitting in a worn leather chair in the middle of Atticus's office. Unlike most places in the Academy, it looks like it's lived-in; wood covers the walls and floors and a fire flickers in the mantel to the side. It seems as much another world from the cold, hard, dark Academy as the sealed-off forest simulation I was in just minutes ago.
Behind me is Scylla and another victor, Jet. He's a younger one, who won his Games less than five years ago. To my left is another student of the Academy: Toren. I've trained with him once or twice. He's a year older than me, strong to the point of ridiculousness, with pronounced muscles on his bare arms. He stares straight ahead, his jaw clenching just a little more than necessary. He's almost bald, with just a small covering of black hair on his head; it's as thick as the feathery fluff that covers newborn birds. But his brutal jaw-line and thick neck erases any connection to any sort of cute animal.
Atticus is finishing up writing down something down on a slip of paper. He's old-fashioned that way; he prefers physical notes rather than the electronic documents preferred by most. He's an older man, and his comfortable plaid clothes he almost looks like a loving grandfather.
"Do you know why you're here, Annie, Toren?" Atticus's asks as he looks up from his paper.
I instantly flashback to the first time I met him, twelve years ago. He asked me a question so similar. I was a young initiate at the Academy, fresh from the desensitization. I was so scared, scared of him, scared of the Academy, scared of being with strangers. Twelve years ago I couldn't even hold a knife in my hand without shaking. I am so much stronger now.
Atticus looks at me and I quickly realize he wants me to respond. "Uh..." I stammer. "I think I do."
Toren interjects, "Don't be modest, Annie. We're the chosen ones." A coy grin plasters itself on his face as he continues, "Two Hunger Games victors escort us, a male and female, to the Academy's Headmaster just a week before the reaping? Just after we conveniently place at the top of our respective classes? There's no other explanation."
Those are my exact thoughts, almost as if he reached into my mind and plucked them out. A shimmer of anxiety radiates in my heart. I can't believe it.
Atticus smiles, wrinkling his eyes warmly as he does. "You are indeed correct. Your skills and strengths have been carefully evaluated over the last several weeks. Yesterday, the head trainers from all main classes met and almost unanimously voted for the two of you to represent District Four in the Seventh Hunger Games."
I'm in shock. I can't breathe. For a second, my heart forgets to beat. This can't be happening. My mouth is hanging open but I can't seem to say anything.
"A-Are you serious?" I finally babble.
Atticus laugh at my question. "My dear, if you know anything about me at all it is that I never kid."
There's a second where I think I'm dreaming. This couldn't be happening to me. I had always planned, always prepared for being a tribute. I just thought I had another year to wait, after all, the vast majority of Career tributes are eighteen.
I look to my left, at my new district partner, Toren. There's a moment where we just soak up each other's eyes, so delighted by this news. Then, I can't keep from grinning anymore. I begin to laugh out of relief.
"I take it you accept my offer?" Atticus asks us.
"Yes!" I say, "yes, a million times yes. Thank you so much for this opportunity."
"Of course we do." Toren says. His steel demeanour masks great happiness, and I tell by the twinge of a smile in his cheek that he's been waiting for this news for a long time.
As, for me, well, I couldn't have wanted this more.
"Excellent! Well, the reaping is in exactly six days. You are dismissed from the Academy forever. You two should go home, celebrate this news, and then go straight to Piscis for the reaping." Atticus says.
Scylla clears her throat.
"Oh, yes," Atticus remembers, "Scylla and Jet are to be your mentors for these Games. You'll be spending a lot of time with them over the next few weeks."
I barely register that fact at all. I still can't believe that I am going to become a tribute, something I've been training for twelve years to accomplish. With a start, I begin to consider the implications of it. What if the Capitol doesn't like me? Oh crap, I need to practice my knife throwing. And go over my flora and fauna. And-
Atticus senses the look of panic on my face. "Listen, you two. You are the tributes because you have it in you to win. You are completely prepared. Just enjoy the last days before the Games begin; spend it with your family...just in case."
"Don't worry, I'll win." Toren and I say, almost simultaneously. Suddenly, the room is filled with a stony silence. Abruptly, it hits me that the boy sitting to my left is my new competition. My rival. My opponent on the battlefield.
And when I look over at him, he's no longer smiling.