A lone figure crossed the parched and pockmarked landscape, black silhouette stark against the smoke-grey sky. The clouds never left Panem now, though neither did it ever rain.

Fuck, he was thirsty.

His head pounded. Throat cracked. Skin white and flaking at the seams. His canteen, bone-dry, banged against his hip with every other step. More than once, he'd thrown it away, only to skitter after it on all fours, madly searching through the dirt. As though in their short time apart, it had miraculously filled. The crushing realisation that it hadn't was almost enough to keep him down. But then thirst scraped his nerves, and he continued on.

The light, he thought. The light, the light, the light.

In his hands, he kept his rifle, finger never far from the trigger. Wishful thinking. There was no one left alive across the mountain slope, though he'd stepped over more corpses then men he'd ever met in person. Wasn't the same though, shooting a dead body. Pointless too, come to think of it.

The light. The light.

They'd run out of people back home as well, at least those he could see. He'd banged on doors, even knocked a few down, "Official war business, open up!" That was all he'd been able to say—he had no memory of his name, his rank, hell what side he was even on. He just needed someone to . . . someone to do something. His blood had been up. It was always up, now.

Whether there was anyone left or not, he hadn't been able to find them. His walkie was dead too, and no phones with the power down. His feet had itched, they always itched, dragging him back and forth across the village until he finally picked a direction. Into the valley, where no doubt more ghost towns waited. Or over the mountains.

He had vague memories of the land beyond (at least he thought he did, couldn't sort shit from piss with this damnable thirst). There was something there, at least, he figured. Echoes of gossip from the villagers, back when there had been villagers, wormed their way into his every thought. Monsters, they'd said, that was where the monsters lived.

Well, that suited him just fine.

He'd set off up the mountain, to scout (right? That was what he'd used to do? Scout?). There was no path thanks to a bunch of big fucking rockslides, and crevices, and cliffs, and he'd nearly died a whole handful of times, but what was life if not nearly dying? Point was, he'd made it over the ridge, and that night he'd surfaced, he'd never forget.

The land beyond had been darkness, a tide of shadow. Except for one tiny pinprick, like a lighthouse on a foggy night. Faint, flickering, but undoubtedly a light.

And that meant people.

The light. Keep heading for the light.

He clambered over a boulder in his path, slid down between two halves of what might have once been a whole skeleton. The destruction on the mountain slope had been absolute, not a thing left living—plant, animal, or man. It was a canvas of blacks and browns, broken occasionally by a rust red smear or hint of white bone. In his stained uniform, he didn't stand out much, except that he still moved and breathed.

"Morons," he said, though his throat was so dry he could only whisper hints of words. He kicked aside a severed arm strewn across his path. "Fucking morons. 'Course there were fucking bombs. Shoulda gone under."

They'd already had tunnels, after all. He knew it because the village he'd been in, it had been a mining town. He'd passed the entrance shaft on his way up the mountains. Even thought about taking it, going through the rock instead of over, just to prove he could succeed where no one else had.

But in the dark, he saw . . . he heard . . .

The cell. The screams.

Shit. Fuck. Shut up. The light. Focus on the light.

He sought to bolt the floodgates of his mind, but leaks sprung through, one by one, no matter how hard he grit his teeth and clenched his gun.

Trapped. Hungry. Hurt.

Oh, but they didn't hurt him, of course. They were above that, or so they never failed to point out. He was the monster, even though he hadn't even completed one mission, barely had a rank, and he didn't known anything, he fucking swore he didn't know anything. It didn't matter; somebody did, and they would wait until he and his squadron beat it out of each other.

So dark. Starving. Agony. Just tell them. Just tell them!

They'd wanted a monster. And he'd finally delivered.

Fat lot of good that did, he thought, mouth curling reflexively into a sneer as he booted a rotting skull away, though his heart felt nothing. No point kicking the dead while they're down. Nowhere near the same as having a live throat beneath your foot, fighting to keep it in place, erratic pulse reverberating all the way up your leg. Nothing was the same as that.

And that was all for nothing. When he'd finally come up with the information they'd sought, the weakness in the city's defenses, they'd used it to plan their assault. And here they all were now. Littering the mountainside. Trash thrown to the breeze.

That had been the plan, he'd come to realise. They'd fed his squad false information and prayed for them to fail. So that they would launch this attack, and then they could take them down. Not the same they, though. The other they. He couldn't remember names anymore, but there was . . . there was a difference.

Ah, fuck it. Semantics. No one left to give a shit.

Except just then, his radio crackled.

He froze. Stock still amongst the prostrate bodies.

Imagination. His imagination.

But the static remained. Tickling his ear. And then, through it all, a voice.

"Panem."

He dropped to his knees. Hands trembling on his gun.

There was someone left.

"Hello, Panem," the miracle voice said. "Hello from the Capitol."

The voice was soft behind the scratchy radio. High-pitched, slightly nasal. Familiar. Not like any voice he'd heard in a long time.

"You sought to ruin us," it said. "You cut us off from the world. But you forgot who brought this world into being. A child cannot disown its mother."

The quality wavered in and out, an occasional word lost. He should unclip his radio, hold it closer to his ear, and yet he remained with his face to the sky, rapturous, like the voice came from the clouds. Arms extended, gun out, not so much a threat as an offering.

"When you sought to soil our city, we brought the heavens crashing down upon you. Have you heard the stories? Of the Capitol's great, red rain?"

He had. Some survivors had made it back to the camp, all of them shattered, in pieces. He'd sat alone in his cell and strained to hear the cries one floor up. Had even whittled a hole into the crumbling concrete with a broken piece of bone so that the sounds might flow more freely.

"Flying monsters," they'd cried.

"Swallowed the sun—"

"Explosions, I can still hear, why can I still hear—"

"—there was so much blood."

He'd been surprised how desperately he clung to the words, how much he yearned to hear more. All the more surprised when he'd looked at the bone chisel in his hand and realised he had a way out.

The wounded men had not had much left to give when he'd gotten to them, but he had gorged on what stories and screams he could get, and it had sated him. For a time. But then the itch had returned, stronger than before, and it hadn't left him since.

"Well, Panem," said the voice on the radio. "Prepare yourself."

His skin prickled. But for once, he didn't feel like clawing out his veins and muscles. These were goosebumps. This was euphoric.

"For you have seen no storm like that which comes next."

The radio clicked off. The breath he had been holding released in one soft gasp.

He rose from the ground. Dusted his pants off; a proud soldier looks the part, that's what his superior had always said. He'd respected the man, truly—he still carried his last gift: his broken humerus. Though the officer had been anything but.

Hah.

With a grin that, this time, reached his eyes, he turned back the way he came. Oh, he'd make it to the light eventually. But he wanted to see this storm, and it would not hit there.

He marched back up the slope with new purpose as thunder growled above him. And finally, finally, the clouds released their rain.

Hello! Back again with another prologue. I had this one already written up, so head's up, updates might slow down a little bit after this depending on work and such, but I'm hoping to keep up something of a regular schedule.

Thanks so much for the kind words and the tributes submitted so far! They've been awesome and I'm super stoked to start writing for them. Lots of spots still open, so if you haven't yet, feel free to submit! And as always, feedback is much appreciated.

Thanks a ton everyone, and see ("see") you next chapter!