So my teachers are on strike, and my education's on hold. Yeah. Silver lining is I'll have more time for writing, so chapters might be coming quicker for the next little while.
Katerina Mossiac, 14, District 11
It's too loud. It's too loud, it's too loud, it's too loud.
I whimper and try to shove my fingers further in my ears, but it's still too loud. The neighing, the shouting, the pounding footsteps. But the worst is the rumble. I try to tell myself it's nothing threatening, just the same sound I heard when I was walking to the reapings with my family. "Simply the sound of a crowd gathering," my father had said as he practically dragged me down the street so the Peacekeepers wouldn't punish us for being late. "Nothing to worry about, Katerina. It's not what you think."
But this time, this time it is. I'm sure of it. The rumbling that precedes hundreds of Peacekeepers marching through the street, or the sound of bombs being dropped, or buildings collapsing on their inhabitants, it's that rumbling. That's why everyone is shouting.
"Hey, kid! Time to go!"
The war is back.
"Get back to your chariot, now!"
I'm going to die.
"Kid!"
A hand wraps around my wrist, yanking my finger out of my ear. My reaction is immediate. Without even opening my eyes, I let out a hysterical shriek and slap my attacker with my free hand. There's a pained grunt, and the grip around my wrist loosens, but I know it's not over. It's never over. If you stop fighting, you die.
My eyes flash open and land immediately on my attacker. Her uniform says it all: Peacekeeper. The white bringers of death.
With another scream, I rake my nails down her cheek, writhing and kicking to escape her evil presence. But for every Peacekeeper hurting someone, there are always ten more in the shadows just waiting to back up their fellow monster. It's a fact I remember too late, only seconds before my arms are gripped by two powerful men dragging me out of my safety corner and into the chaos of the stables beyond. All the while, the menacing rumble grows louder. I can't let it get me, I can't!
"Goddammit, why can't we just shoot them?" one of the Peacekeepers snarls over my scream.
"We have our orders," the other says calmly, though his expression quickly turns into a grimace as my flailing leg catches him on the shin.
"Just one, that's all I'm asking for. One to make an example of. The others wouldn't be so keen to resist after that."
The others. Yes, the others! There are other kids like me here, right? I didn't want to approach them because they were too loud and dressed in scary costumes, but now I can see how similar we are. Two other girls are screaming at the Peacekeepers, a blonde and a brunette, though their faces are twisted and they look terrifyingly furious. A little boy is nervously backing away from the approaching authorities, and farther down the chariot line, another is swearing colourfully at them, middle finger thrust in the air. All these displays of resistance, and more. For once, I'm not the odd one, the hysterical one, the crazy one. They're all just like me.
And Kale, what about him? The friend I made on the train, the boy I followed around everywhere so he could protect me from that scary Capitolite, where is he? I need his help!
There, there! By some other tall boy with a frown on his face. They've been caught by the Peacekeepers too, but neither looks like they're putting up a fight as they're shove in opposite directions.
"Yeah, okay, I'm going," I hear Kale snap as we're both dragged towards the chariot bedecked with plastic fruit. "I get it, you're the tough guys and you're not to be messed with. Fine. Can I walk by myself?"
In answer, they shove him up into the chariot. One Peacekeeper steps up and snaps something around Kale's wrist. Handcuffs.
"Oh, come on," Kale grumbles as the Peacekeeper snaps the other cuff around a bar in our chariot. "Really? I'm not going anywhere."
"Hey!" one of my handlers calls as he drags me up to the chariot. "Got an extra pair for her? Psycho bitch nearly clawed Eirene's eye out."
Me, I realise. They mean me. They want to handcuff me. Like they did with all those captured rebels. Right before the execution.
My scream is louder this time than any of my previous ones. I thrash about desperately, wrenching my arms this way and that, because they have to let go, I can't be caught, I can't be killed, I can't!
"Katerina! Katerina, stop, all right?"
Kale's words stop me, if only for a moment. His eyes are focused on me, and while he looks a bit irritated, I can't help but be reminded of Clare. They both have the same warm, brown eyes. And Clare is my friend. So Kale is my friend? I-I think so. Should I listen to him now?
I have no time to decide on an answer. The moment I stop moving, the Peacekeepers leap on the opportunity to shove me into the chariot and clamp a cuff around my wrist. The metal feels cool and hard against my bare skin, restraining me, caging me, suffocating me. It seems to shrink every second, getting tighter and tighter until my circulation dies and my hand falls limp.
I want it off, I want it off, I want it off.
"Katerina, calm down," Kale whispers as my breaths turn into frantic wheezes, barely audible over the clanging metal as I try to yank the cuff away from the bar it's attached to. "Look it's going to be okay, just don't make a fuss."
"Th-th-this is what they wore," I stammer, pulling my hand as hard as I can even though it's too big to slip through the cuff. "The rebels, the rebels. Aunty S-Sage. Uncle F-F-Fennel. I can't be like them, I can't!"
"Shhh." Kale glances worriedly in the direction of the nearest Peacekeeper, who looks over at my outburst. "Katerina, we're not going to be like them, all right? This isn't an execution, it's a . . . parade."
"A p-parade?"
"Yeah. You ever go see the Harvest Parade in the capital, before the war?"
"Uh-huh." My parents took me and my brother each year. I always got to sit on Dad's shoulders because he was the tallest, and that way I could see all the floats and people in pretty costumes. I always wanted to be like the girls in the parade, but Mom said I'd never have a chance because people from the working class weren't picked.
"Well, that's this. We're in a parade right now. So it's nothing to, you know, freak out about."
Is this a parade? The chariots don't look like parade floats at all, and 11's parades never had horses. But everyone's in costume, even me and Kale. I ruffle my colourful dress and touch my fruit basket hat. It's not exactly what the girls from 11 wore, but this is a Capitol parade. Maybe the style is different here.
I squeal as our chariot jerks forward, and my free arm wraps around Kale's without really thinking. He sighs the way Mom does when she's annoyed, but doesn't say anything, so I continue to squeeze his hand as we slowly inch forward.
"What's going on?"
"The parade's starting. Look."
He tries to point up ahead, but when I don't release his arm, simply jerks his head in the direction to which he's referring. We're pretty far back in the stables, but across the enormous room, I can just see the square of light indicating open doors and the chariot moving through it. The rumble intensifies as well, no longer the sound of a thousand mumbles, but the collective shouting of . . . something.
"Kale, what's that noise?"
"Um, cheering. Like everyone does for a parade." He bites his lip and turns away, mumbling, "Yeah."
People think my hysterics mean I'm stupid, but I'm not. The moment the third chariot in the line exits the stables, I realise the sound is definitely not a happy one. But why would anyone be anything other than happy for a parade?
I don't know, and I don't want to find out. But all too soon, the chariots in front of us roll out until it's our turn to go.
My grip tightens on Kale's arm. Maybe this looks kind of like the parades back in 11, but it's definitely not the same. Suddenly, I have no desire to participate in this. I want to go. I want to go home.
"Kale, make it stop," I whimper as our chariot rolls towards the door. "Kale, I don't want to do this. Kale, please, Kale—"
"Will you shut up?" he snaps.
I flinch, letting go of his arm and staring up at him in shock. He . . . he was supposed to be my friend.
Tears sting my eyes, yet even with watery vision, I can see Kale glance at me and sigh.
"Look," he grumbles softly. "I'm sorry, all right? But there's nothing anyone can do. Just keep your head down and prepare yourself. I think it's gonna get ugly."
But you said it was a parade. Like the ones back in 11. They were only ever pretty.
You lied to me.
I can't yell at him though. I can't do anything. At that moment, our chariot rolls out the door, and things do indeed get very, very ugly.
I knew the "cheer" from the crowd sounded off, and I was right, because it's not cheering, it's booing. We emerge in a stadium filled with Capitolites, and all are out of their seats with their shaking fists in the air, screaming insults and curses down at the tributes. There are things flying down from the seats as well: rocks, eggs, rotten fruit. Many of the others' costumes are already ruined and stained.
As soon as the crowd sees our chariot, though, everything goes to hell. Somehow, the booing grows louder, shaking the very foundation of the stadium with hatred. Malicious laughter rises up from the crowd as we're pelted with anything the audience can get their hands on. A mouldy tomato bursts against my hip, an egg slams against my tall hat; I shriek and duck beneath the rim of the chariot, but the barrage is relentless.
The tears are returning, racing down my face faster than I can blink them away. Why, why are they doing this to us? I never hurt them! It was just m-my aunt, my un-uncle, and now they're dead, so why does the Capitol still hate? What have we done that could possibly merit this?
The chariot is small, but not too small that I can't sit with my back to the front of the carriage, knees pressed up against my chest. My arm is held up uncomfortably thanks to the handcuffs, but I don't care—anything to avoid all those hateful stares.
Our chariot hits a bump and I shriek, nearly sliding off, but Kale grabs my free arm once more and keeps me stable. I cling to him like he's my only life preserver in this sea of chaos, awed by the fact that he can remain so strong and impassive in the face of such overwhelming hostility.
Although he might not be as calm as he's letting on. Every time something flies out of the bleachers to hit us, his eye twitches, and the fingers of his free hand haven't stopped tapping the chariot bar since we got going. Maybe he is like me, then—just better at hiding it.
I squeak as our chariot stops abruptly. The cries from the audience and the amount of things being thrown our way seem to have lessened as well, but I don't dare rise. They might start hurting me again.
"What's going on?" I whisper up to Kale.
"We're stopped in front of some fancy-ass mansion," he mutters back. "Think it's . . . yep, there's the president on the balcony. Bitch."
No sooner does the insult leave his lips than a voice booms across the square, thousands of times louder than any person should speak. I whimper and plug my ears again, but it's no use. The presence of the Capitol is everywhere.
"People of the Capitol, welcome! And to our . . . guests from the districts, a big, warm welcome to you as well."
Cruel laughter erupts from the crowd. Somewhere down the line of tributes, I think I hear someone swearing.
"You're likely wondering why I've gathered you hear like this. Of course, you know of the Hunger Games, but why the chariot rides beforehand?
"As I'm sure many of you know, my family has had a long and noble history. Even before the formation of Panem, we were one of the most powerful families in a country once known as Italy. Long, long before that, our ancestors were the Romans. Do you know of the Roman Empire? It was the greatest civilisation of the ancient world. Indeed, my namesake was the reason the era of the Roman Empire began.
"I wish this for Panem. For too long, we have been known only as a struggling nation, still recuperating from disasters that happened too long ago to properly remember. This is unacceptable. Are we not deserving of more? Should we not shed our title of a country that merely 'survives', and trade it for a more glorious one? Should we not be known as an empire of victors?"
The cheering from the crowd is deafening. It makes me want to curl up and die.
"If we want to be like our ancestors, we must then follow in their footsteps. Do you know what some of the most famous pastimes of the Romans were? Gladiatorial combat and chariot racing. And so we pay tribute to our ancestors before the Hunger Games begin with this parade, an homage to the ancient sport.
"Now, to our lovely tributes. I see the faces you are making, the hateful words you are attempting to shout. Why? As far as punishment for your districts' heinous actions go, I see this as merciful. Know that not all gladiators in Ancient Rome were slaves or the conquered. Many saw this as an opportunity to win fame and fortune beyond their wildest dreams, and scores of free men openly volunteered for the games. Evidently, some of you already understand this. Good. I cannot wait to see you compete, to take down those undeserving of their spot in the Hunger Games and to fight for the prize you know is worth it."
The president continues talking for a bit after that, but I don't want to listen, no, no, no. What does she mean, some people will compete in these Hunger Games? Father told me during the goodbyes, he said no one would ever think of complying. The Capitol could never make us fight. We're all on the same side.
I keep thinking that over and over, even after the president says goodbye, even after the national anthem plays, even after our chariot returns to the stables under a new storm of rocks and insults. The president's words don't make sense. I mean, Kale said there were volunteers for the Hunger Games from that show he watched last night, but even if he's telling the truth, they must have had a good reason. And still, no one's actually going to k-k-kill each other.
No, it's going to be all right. I'm going to be safe.
Kale still looks nervous, his fingers tapping rapidly even as a Peacekeeper comes over to let us out of the handcuffs. His free hand is still in mine, and I squeeze it reassuringly. For him, not for me. I know everything's going to be all right. We're all on the same side. I'm going to be safe.
"It's going to be okay," I say, standing up to face him after the Peacekeeper releases me. Kale seems surprised at my sudden calm, and frankly, I am too, but what is there to worry about? "No one's going to fight. We're all on the same side."
I'm going to be safe.
I give Kale a tentative smile before the Peacekeeper interrupts, snapping at us to get a move on towards the elevators. And I do, because I know we're all on the same side, and I'm going to be safe.
Until I reach the elevators. Until I find myself standing beside a boy I hadn't noticed before.
It . . . No, it can't be.
The curly black hair. The steel grey eyes. That jagged scar from his cheekbone to his jaw.
No. No, no, no, no, no, no.
"You!" I screech, stumbling away.
The boy jumps and glares at me, but the expression freezes when he takes in my outfit. I can see the thoughts in his head, adding up like a math problem. District 11. I'm from District 11. The district he betrayed.
My aunt and uncle died. Because of him.
I want to run away, run as far as I can from the murderer who brought so much death upon us. But I also need to attack him, stop him before he hurts me and anyone else. So I leap forward, hands up, nails out, tears of hatred and fear streaming down my face—
—only to be pulled back as Kale wraps his arms around my waist. "Katerina," he grunts, ducking as my flailing fist comes hi way. "Katerina, stop, what are you—?"
"It's him!" I shriek, jabbing my finger at the boy now trying to hide his face and push the elevator button furiously. "Him, him, him! He killed my aunt, he killed my uncle, he killed everyone!"
We're slowly accumulating an audience as the other tributes glance up to see what the commotion is all about. A girl near the murderous monster is frowning in confusion, nudging his arm while he refuses to look her way. Close by, one of the girls who was shouting earlier steps out of the crowd of onlookers.
"Hey, I know you, don't I?" she asks the murderer, though her eyes keep darting back to me. "Yeah, Velour Estrada's third or fourth cousin, or something like that. You stayed in Eight for a bit, didn't you? What was your name again?"
"Mind you own business," the boy snaps, only to flinch back as Kale steps towards him. My district partner keeps one arm around my waist, but the other hand shoots out to grab the killer's chin before he can hide his face again.
Both of them suck in a sharp breath.
"Well, shit," Kale mutters quietly. "Aemilius Lewellyn."
"Don't touch me," the murderer of our people snarls, smacking Kale's hand away. He can try to glare all he wants, though; it doesn't hide the cornered look in his eyes. Everyone's staring at him, mostly curious, but Kale's gaze is deadly. I'm not even trying to fight his grip anymore. Anything I can do, I think he can do worse.
Kale opens his mouth, but before he can speak, the elevator arrives at the stables, and Aemilius Lewellyn races in, slamming his hand on the closing doors button. No one moves save the girl who was nudging him earlier; she hops inside just in time to turn and give us an awkward wave.
"And I'm Sam Hoffman. Nice to meet you guys."
The doors close, and they disappear from view. Kale and I are still staring at the spot where they once were.
"So," the girl who spoke earlier says, stepping up to Kale's side. "What the hell was that?"
Kale opens his mouth to answer, but I speak before he can. I'm not even talking to the girl, not really—I'm not talking to anyone but myself.
"Aemilius Lewellyn," I stammer, shivering as Kale cautiously lets go of me. "Aemilius Lewellyn. H-H-He was the one who . . . wh-who killed everyone. In El-Eleven. N-No, everywhere. All the r-rebels. Because he . . . h-h-he . . ."
I can't continue, not with images of my aunt and uncle's execution playing over and over in my head.
"He gave up the location of Eleven's rebel base," Kale finishes for me. "He's the reason we lost the war."
Ooh, draaaaaama.
I hope I'm slowly leaking info about everyone's history fast enough. It's a bit easier since a lot of these guys hopped around districts, so I can include info about tributes in chapters that aren't their own. I promise, everything will eventually become clear (and if not, I'll clarify further in a review or PM or something).
Also, Julia definitely did not write her speech. She is no history buff, and she doesn't realise her "namesake" brought about the Roman Empire by, you know, being stabbed to death. Way to go, Miss President.