The first thing Ahenobarbus noticed was the sun.

It blinded him for a moment. After nearly forty-eight hours in the catacombs beneath the arena, the rays of the summer sun at noon were harsh and blistering. He squinted his eyes shut and tried not to lose his sense of balance as the platform raised him up into the newly-renovated Hunger Games stadium.

The second thing he noticed was the cheers.

He opened his eyes the barest slit. Flashes of color danced around the edges of his sight. In the space of a heartbeat his pupils contracted and his body gave him a massive hit of adrenaline. Everything was moving slower than normal, the colors were clearer, fresher, more focused. He could see the beads of sweat on the brows of the other tributes, see each curl of the lip and snarl and shaking fist of the angry crowd surrounding them all.

This was it. It was what he had been preparing for. And in the moment when his platform locked him in place on his pedestal, Ahenobarbus Romero wasn't sure if he was ready.

Focus, he thought. First step is to assess your battleground. It's your greatest enemy and your best ally.

There wasn't much battleground to begin with. His pedestal stood on a stretch of flat, sandy ground. Fifty yards to either end of the arena in all directions. Nothing else. No rocks, no obstacles, no shelter to use for defense. Just sand. And rose petals, and garlands of flowers, from the celebrations and parades Ahenobarbus had heard from the catacombs for hours.

His pedestal stood in a broad ring with twenty-three others. In the center, weapons had been scattered around, just begging to be used. Old weapons, arcane, the likes of which had only been seen in the National Museum of American Art and History before the rebels had blown it to rubble. The concept behind them wasn't difficult to understand. Pick it up by the handle and hit the other guy with the sharp end.

Silver walls rose five meters around the expanse of sand, walling them all in. Above the walls the stands were packed with Capitol citizens. There must have been a hundred thousand of them at least, all cheering and eating and drinking. All dressed in their most ostentatious clothes. Those clothes had been one of the symbols of the rebellion, evidence of the Capitol's debauchery and excess. Those clothes had been why District 8 had blown up its own factories. Why hundreds more had died as the Capitol forced them to work every hour until they had been rebuilt. District 3 hadn't fared much better. Or so Ahenobarbus had heard.

Keep your mind in the moment, Nobi, he reminded himself. After the battleground, focus on your enemies.

Ahenobarbus's enemies were ringed around him, twenty-three shivering and crying children. He had to be one of the oldest. All of them were dressed in white tunics and boots. Sacrificial white, the stylist who dressed them all had said. To remind you of your sins. Nobi strongly suspected that it was really meant to make the bloodstains show.

He considered trying to find Cassia for a moment, then decided against it. The girl he had come to the Capitol with was sweet in her own way. Angry and fiery too. Nobi liked that in a girl. He had liked it in Cassia when she stalked up to the stage after her name was called and flashed a rude sign to the cameras. He had liked it when she insulted the Capitol clown who escorted them to the catacombs. And he had especially liked it when she came to him in the metal cage they shared last night beneath the arena, and slipped off her purple district dress, and undid his trousers and pulled him out and asked him to make her feel like a lover, once, just once before the night was over. She wasn't saying his name when he finished. He didn't care.

"How does it feel to be the first girl to sleep with a Victor?" he had whispered in her ear as he lay on top of her.

She had slapped him. He liked that too.

But that was over. She was the granddaughter of district rebels. His father was a war hero. Maybe the Capitol would enjoy watching both of them ally to take down the others, but his father's only advice had been to run her through first.

If only you knew, Dad.

The rest of the tributes weren't really worth noting. Everyone had expected the arena to be filled with the children of the rebels, but most of the rebel kids were dead or imprisoned anyway, and that wasn't the point. The Games weren't meant to punish only those who fought. It was meant to punish those who had watched the fighting and did nothing. Neutrality was treason.

The exception stood opposite him. Jon Undersee was ignoring the crowd, the arena, the other tributes. He didn't spare a glance towards the pile of weapons heaped in front of him even though Ahenobarbus was certain Jon was the only other tribute who might have the ability to use them. Undersee had eyes only for his sister, who was standing two spots to Ahenobarbus's right. He had heard that Jon had escaped to 12 after the destruction of District 13, that Ryla had been imprisoned with her mother in 5. This was probably the first time they were seeing each other since the Treaty of Treason had been signed six months ago. He doubted anyone believed they had both been randomly reaped for the very first Hunger Games considering who they were.

Considering who their parents were.

Trumpets blared out from hidden loudspeakers. Ahenobarbus tried to focus on the weapons in front of him, tried to pick which one would be easiest for him to use, but he couldn't help looking up towards the presidential box, where lights were flashing and fireworks were blazing and President Lucius was standing up next to his wife and ministers, raising his hands.

"Welcome, welcome," he said. As always, his voice sounded like redcurrant jam and rockslides. At least that's how his ma had described it once. "Welcome to the First Annual Hunger Games! Not a year ago, our nation was nearly in shambles. Traitors and rebels almost succeeded in tearing apart all we had worked so hard to achieve. But through trials, through suffering, through victory, we prevailed! The brave and the courageous have triumphed! Panem today, Panem forever!"

The crowd roared. Ahenobarbus felt a thrill of pride. His district had been the loyal one. He was among the brave, the courageous.

"And to remind the districts of the consequence of treason, we have established this pageant of courage and sacrifice. The tributes before you were selected to represent their homes and their families. Tributes, we honor you, and drink to your bravery."

A thousand crystal glasses flashed in the sun.

"To the Victor shall come riches and a life without want, as a reminder of our compassion, and our mercy."

President Lucius raised a red hankerchief. "And now, ladies and gentlemen. Let the First Annual Hunger Games begin!"

The scream of the crowd seemed to hold the scrap of cloth aloft for a moment. It hovered, drifted, and then fell to the sandy ground. The moment it hit the speakers began to count down.

"Sixty. Fifty-Nine. Fifty-Eight."

Ahenobarbus was ready. He had to be ready. He had been chosen for this. It was his duty. This was all for him.

"Forty-Eight. Forty-Seven, Forty-Six"

"You know why you were picked, right?" his father had asked as he stepped into the room in the newly constructed Justice Building.

Ahenobarbus had shaken his head. "I don't understand. I fought. I fought for them. I fought for Panem. I fought for you."

"Boy, you are as stupid as your mother was."

Ahenobarbus had flinched. His mother had been unloyal, yes. A traitor, a rebel, foolish. But she had never been stupid. Even when her husband had wrapped his hands around her throat and forced the life out of her, she had never been stupid. She just made the wrong choice.

Ahenobarbus had watched. He knew then that he would never make the wrong choice.

"Thirty-Five. Thirty-Four. Thirty-Three."

"Do you really believe that the Capitol is going to allow a rebel kid walk away from that arena as a Victor? Can you imagine the president letting a Carrell, or an Undersee, or a Remington live in luxury for the rest of their lives? Do you really think those puffed-up peacocks are going to celebrate the victory of some sniveling little shit from District Six or Eight? Think, boy! The first Victor has to be perfect. They need someone special. Someone brave and deadly. Someone who looks like a Victor. And above all, someone loyal."

Ahenobarbus had nodded. He was loyal. And he was brave too. No one could say he wasn't, not after he had been part of the auxiliary squad that had retaken the Mountain Fortress. And he was trained in combat. Ever since the Capitol had announced that District 2 men and women were eligible to enlist in the new military force, Nobi had been training for the day he would wear the Peacekeepers' white.

All that had changed when his name was pulled out of the reaping ball. After everything had happened, Ahenobarbus had simply forgotten that he was still only eighteen. He had felt like a man for so many years.

"Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen."

His father had walked up to him, placed his hands on his shoulders, and kissed his head. The first kiss he could remember getting from the man.

"They chose you, son," the hero of District 2 had muttered. "Make me proud."

I'll make you proud, Dad, Ahenobarbus thought. I'll make the whole district proud.

"Three. Two. One."

The gong sounded.

Every instinct roared through Ahenobarbus, screaming at him to run, to grab his weapon, to start fighting. He pushed it down to a place beneath his stomach. His father had drilled this into him throughout the rebellion Unless you have the element of surprise, always let your enemy make the first move. First to move is the first to make a mistake.

The roar of the crowd dwindled as the Capitolians realized no one was playing their Game. All of the tributes remained on their platforms. Many were crying. A few were retching. Undersee was shouting something to his sister that was lost in the buzz of the thousands of other voices.

Ahenobarbus's fingers itched. That machete was only twenty yards away. So close. He could get there before anyone else and start hacking.

Wait, he thought. Just wait.

"If you're the first to attack, you're the first target," Dad had told him. "All your training won't do you much good if twenty-three fear-crazed teenagers jump you. Let them weed themselves out first."

Except there was no weeding. Not yet. The minutes dragged by. The crowd started to boo. Ahenobarbus risked one glace up towards President Lucius. The regal man was sipping wine, looking supremely unconcerned.

One of the girls screamed. Her shrilling voice seemed to set off a wave of hysteria and soon most of the girls and several of the boys were screaming, shouting, wailing. The crowd laughed and jeered.

And still, no one moved.

For a moment, Ahenobarbus wondered what would happen if they all just refused to play. If every tribute sat down and refused to fight. Would the Capitol start gunning them down? Blow up the mines beneath the pedestals?

He never found out. There was a flash of white and red to his right as Ryla made a break for it.

The rebel girl from 5 dashed to the middle of the arena and snatched up a spear and a sickle. The crowd cheered as she flew towards another tribute, eager for blood, for battle, for vengeance. But Ryla had eyes only for her brother and she leaped up onto the pedestal with him, handing him the sickle as they stood back to back.

It wasn't what the crowd wanted to see. But it was enough.

One of the boys bolted. Ryla had only meant to make it to her brother's side, but the young sandy haired boy from 6 finally snapped and snatched up his own spear. He gave a crazed shout and ran towards the first tribute he recognized. The crowd gasped and cheered as the spear went through the belly of the girl from 6 and a flower of crimson blossomed on her white tunic. Her district partner screamed as he realized what he had done.

A pistol went off high above. First death.

The tension broke. The tributes leapt off their plates, some running to the farthest parts of the area they could find, others trying to grab a weapon.

It's happening. This is really happening.

It was time.

Ahenobarbus jumped off his own pedestal and raced towards the weapons. He grabbed the machete and turned towards his opponents. Tributes were scattering in every direction, trying to get away from each other and often colliding with others in their wild flights. The boys from 1 and 5 were fighting with swords, awkwardly thrusting at one another. The crowd loved it. The tributes were distracted. It was time for Ahenobarbus to do his duty.

The first tribute he noticed was the boy from 6. He was still frozen by the gutted body of his district partner, shivering from the shock. Killing him was so easy. Just swing the machete and pop! Off comes the head. Like killing a chicken for Sunday soup. Ma always made the best Sunday soup. The pistol shot another round.

The girl from 1 hadn't even moved from her pedestal. She was clutching her tunic over her eyes, hiding her face from the carnage. She didn't even notice Ahenobarbus come up. Her death was a little messier. She was too high for him to reach her neck, so he had to thrust the machete up through her belly and out her back.

Blood soaked the sand and splattered on his tunic. It smelled like the war did.

Several fights were underway by this time. The boy from 5 had won his match and newly emboldened came rushing at the man from 2. One swing of the blade took of the boy's arm. Ahenobarbus didn't stop to check and see if he was dead.

Things started to blur together. Ahenobarbus defended himself from several attacks, but he didn't kill anyone. At least he didn't think so. Several bodies now lay scattered around the arena. He noticed Cassia lying at the bottom of her pedestal, a mace buried in her chest. Her eyes were still pretty though.

Ahenobarbus ignored the rest of the matches blazing around him. He would let the few who were willing to fight finish each other off, weaken each other for the final battles. Instead he found three girls clutching each other in the far end of the arena, right under the presidential box. Colored heads and feathered hats clustered above him as he marched up and dealt the death blows one by one. Flowers and hankerchiefs and perfumed gloves rained down on him.

"Water!" he called. "Does anyone have water?"

A bottle of water dropped from the stands into his waiting hand. He unscrewed the top and toasted the woman who had tossed it, then the presidential box. President Lucius raised his own wine glass to him and drank. Ahenobarbus's heart soared. He could only imagine what his father was thinking.

The man from 2 was beginning to think that the Hunger Games would be the easiest battle of his life until he found himself facing Jon and Ryla Undersee.

Jon leveled his sickle at him. Ryla covered his back with her spear.

"Come to finish what you started, Romero?" Jon asked as he feinted a thrust.

Ahenobarbus deflected the blow. "Just doing my duty, Undersee."

"Your duty." Jon spat on the ground. "Like the rape of Three was your duty? The iron mines massacre? The tracker jackers in Seven? District Thirteen?"

"I wasn't at any of those. You know that, Undersee. I stayed in Two. You came to me."

Sickle met machete. And met again. And again.

"I'm sorry for your brother, Ahenobarbus. But we were fighting for our freedom."

"We were fighting for our home!" Ahenobarbus roared. "You came into my home, you scraped and spied and tricked us into treating you like a brother! And how did you repay us? You tried to kill us all! You and your parents and all your rebel friends nearly killed us all!"

The blades met harder and faster. Ahenobarbus had more skill. Jon was still fresh. Ryla didn't interfere. She'd only endanger her brother if she tried.

"Do you remember what I told you, Romero? That last night before I escaped?"

"I remember," growled Ahenobarbus. "Don't you dare say it again."

"Death has no meaning. It's how we live that gives meaning to the dead we loved."

Ahenobarbus roared and raised his blade, but his anger and rage and grief slowed him down and he felt the deep bite of steel in his side. He didn't even hear the gasp of the crowd. There was only him. And the pain. And Undersee.

Ahenobarbus gave his enemy one last gift in death. He ripped the spear from Ryla's hands. Distracted by the unexpected move and taken off guard by the man's strength, neither Jon nor Ryla had time to counter Ahenobarbus's attack. He reversed the spear and thrust it through both of them, killing them instantly. In the end, neither was forced to mourn the other, even for a minute.

Ahenobarbus glared down at the body of the boy from 12 as the pistol shot off two rounds. Jon Undersee was no fighter. He had been a spy. A brilliant tactician. A worthy enemy.

And for a short period of time, Ahenobarbus had called him a friend.

The world went red. The arena blurred together in a fog of blood and pain. Ahenobarbus roared and tore through the arena like a storm off the sea in District 4. Anything that moved he cut down, anything that fled he pursued until he was bathing in a river of blood and gore. He wasn't sure who he was killing anymore, if it was tributes or children or rebels or Peacekeepers or the President or his parents or Jon Undersee. All that mattered was that he killed. All that matter was that he killed all of them before he started feeling again.

In the end, he was just kneeling in the sand, pain rolling off his side in waves, cutting up what was left of the boy from 8 as the trumpets sounded and people were screaming his name and a loud voice said something about the first Victor, Ahenobarbus Romero.

The First Hunger Games lasted thirty-eight minutes and ended with a Victor who killed fifteen of his opponents.