Anticipation

Jasmine Softwing, 18, District One

In the darkness of night, the moonlight filters in through the silk curtains, leaving lacey patterns of soft silver on the dark high-pile carpet. My eyes flit across the room to the clock on the wall.

2:00 AM.

I groan and turn over in bed. It's been three hours, and I still can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Arena horrors from previous years, whether it's the mutts or the murders. Sometimes, I'm doing the murdering. Sometimes, I'm being murdered. I'm not sure which one is worse.

I bury my face in the pillow. "Pathetic."

Am I really so weak? So fragile? So unable to keep myself together? Perhaps the scenery will calm my nerves. I roll out of bed and glide across the carpet to the window. Drawing the curtain back, I peer out at the Capitol. There are people in the streets, even at this hour, dressed up in their most opulent party clothes. I think one's wearing a wig meant to look like my hair; would she be one of my sponsors?

Sponsoring you is sponsoring murder.

I stumble back to bed and collapse on the cloud-like sheets, but the flashy lights have jolted my mind awake and sleep feels even further away.

I give up. Maybe there's some herbal tea in the dining room that'll calm my nerves. I wander into the dim dining room. With all the lights out, it seems hollow, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of all the previous District One tributes who were deceived into believing that winning the Hunger Games was the highest honor possible.

As it turns out, there's no tea, neither the waking nor the sleeping kind. I look back down the hall to my room, and I decide that I don't want to go back there, not while there's no hope of slumber. Part of me wants to go take a bath, to get a massage, to watch a movie, but it just feels so wrong to ignore the glaring issues with everything and pretend that everything's fine.

Because nothing is "fine" about this entire situation.

I don't want to return to my room. I have nothing to do here. Stuck in the middle, I sit on the couch and watch the gemstone analog clock count the seconds down until it's time to go.

Four hours… with sixty minutes an hour… with sixty seconds a minute…

What am I doing? I hate math! Who even am I now?

I bury my head in my hands, squeezing my eyes shut until the condemnation in my head becomes a distant whisper and I feel myself growing numb. As long as I don't have to move, as long as the silence remains, as long as nothing happens, I don't have to feel. I don't have to face the Hunger Games.

Footsteps.

No! Why now? I can't deal with people now! What will they say if they see me like this?

I'm still trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for me being here when a concerned voice breaks through the fogginess I've created, instantly bringing me back to the moment.

"Are you okay?"

I lift my head out of my hands and look up, staring into Lannister's blue eyes, filled with startled worry. It isn't long before I have to break the gaze out of shame and I collapse on the sofa. "No."

He immediately sits down and places a hand on my shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"It's… a long story."

"We've got four hours," he rebuts.

"You need sleep."

"You need someone to talk to."

I need someone to talk to. Those words cut through my heart faster than the rapier I wield. I've tried so hard to avoid burdening people with my unimportant problems, but I still find myself here, taking up his time. "I'm sorry… I'm such a bother."

"I wanted a midnight snack anyway." He goes to the table and returns with a plate of crackers. "If it makes you feel better, I'd be up eating anyway if you weren't here."

I stare at him. He takes a cracker, pops it in his mouth, and raises an eyebrow, inviting me to elaborate. I look away. "You're not going to do some stupid magic trick right now?"

"Excuse me?" He grips his chest in mock pain. "My magic tricks are not stupid. But no. The only trick I'm doing now is making this pile of crackers disappear." He takes another and holds the plate out to me. "You want one?"

"I don't think I can eat right now."

"So what's wrong?"

"I… I shouldn't say. It'll be bad for you."

"Telling me will be good for you."

I look away. He's too nice. Too caring. He's not a monster; he doesn't realize how all of us trained kids have played right into society's lie—that murder is glamour and that "making a killing" should be literal.

And you're the worst of them all.

I shouldn't tell him. This is rebellious talk; it's not good for him. But then I look back at him and he's still sitting there, waiting for me to speak, genuinely interested, not just in my performance but in me, unlike my parents, friends, trainers…

The words spring out of my throat before I can stop them. "I regret everything."

"Volunteering?"

"Everything. The Academy. Training. Volunteering. Everything's so…" —don't say it don't say it don't say it— "Everything's so f— — up!" His jaw has dropped. The Jasmine Softwing, epitome of refinement—cursing? I look away—he thinks so much worse of me, he hates me, he'll kill me—

"Please, go on," he says, gently encouraging me with his voice.

Tears are poking at the corner of my eyes—the dam has broken, and there's no going back. "District One has done nothing except encourage us to murder. How f— — up is that? And I was stupid for going along with it because all I'm good for now is killing! I can't work, I can't sing, I can't do anything except kill! And I volunteered to kill! What does that make me?" A sob rises, choking my words out. "I… I… I'm a monster. A heartless, f— — monster!"

There's no response.

That's it; I've really lost him this time. I wipe at my eyes with my hands, but it only succeeds in smearing my tears all over my face. "I'm sorry; you don't understand—"

But then his arm wraps around my shoulders, surrounding me in warmth. "Oh—no! It's not that," he says, "I have my regrets too." He pauses. "I… regret not standing up when my parents kicked my sister out. I regret letting them choose whom I was allowed to be friends with. And…" He takes a deep breath. "I regret volunteering too. I shouldn't have blindly obeyed my parents… my friends… the trainers… everything."

I look up, and through the tears that blur my vision, I think I see him blinking back tears himself. I can't do anything about it, and a new guilt settles in my gut. His falling apart is my fault. If only I'd kept my peace. If only I hadn't said anything to him. Maybe I wouldn't have dragged him down with me.

He grabs a tissue box and hands it to me. I wipe my face dry and blow my nose, taking deep, gulping breaths until my body has calmed down. He takes a tissue himself, but he pulls away to hide his face. "This sucks."

This is pathetic. We should be the strong ones, ready to charge in and win. But we're both crying messes, losing sleep over the very thing we gave our lives for. Still… somehow… it feels right. This is what a real, feeling human being would do in this situation.

In this moment, I feel human again.

Rina Alcott, 18, District Seven

The time. 5:00 AM. Too dark to make a weather prediction. Far too early. I should go back to bed and get as much sleep as possible, but my eyes are wide open and I'm fully awake.

This is not beneficial.

I shut my eyes. Today, the Games begin. I'll need as much energy as possible. I run through the list of do's and don't's I made with Yvonne. Do get rest. Don't overexert yourself if possible in the Arena. Do eat enough to be full for the first day, at least. Don't eat too much that you can't move quickly at the Cornucopia.

This isn't working. My heart is beating faster than ever. Reasoning is supposed to calm me, not terrify me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Rina. Rest. Rina. Rest. Rina. Rest.

The chant in my mind races faster and faster until I want to scream. Why isn't this working?

It's okay. You can still salvage this. The body runs on the charge I get from sleep and the energy I get from food, so if I can't sleep, I might as well eat. I shower and then go to the dining room, where the table is already set with food and silverware but no one is around. I rest my fingers on the back of my chair, a little hesitant to go ahead and eat. Little bits of grey morning light are falling through the window, casting a deathly shimmer over everything.

You have to eat. Otherwise, you risk dying of hunger.

I grit my teeth and pile on a stack of scrambled eggs on my plate. My body's still shaking. My stomach's still churning. My fingers are still jittering. I'm doing all the right things; why won't my body respond? The smell is revolting. I'm not hungry, but I take a bite, and then another, and then another, telling myself that eventually, reason will win and my body will submit.

But no.

I finish my entire plate. Now I want to vomit.

Why am I like this? Why isn't it working?

Suddenly, the lights flash on and Cedric enters, taking unsteady steps towards the table. I raise an eyebrow.

He grins cheekily. "I… just got out of bed, I'm sorry."

Cedric! If anyone can cut through the delirious fog I'm trying to work out, it's him. "Please… talk."

He gives me a funny look. "Talk?"

"Just talk!" I say. Desperation is creeping into my voice and I hate it. "Do that thing you always do."

He rubs his bleary eyes and yawns. "What?"

"That thing where you call me out. I don't care. Just talk."

"Is everything alright?"

The response pops out before I can control it. "Yes."

"You don't even believe that yourself." He laughs. "Let's try that again. Are you okay?"

I want to say it, but it feels like my entire body revolts at the idea of admitting that I'm not that strong, I'm not that capable, I'm not that sturdy, I'm not—

"It's hard to admit it," he says, "But you've got to be honest with yourself if you want to get better."

Get better.

I hate it. It makes it sound like I'm sick, or diseased, or unwell… anything but strong. But it's not wrong. My body clearly feels sick. Since when did I have to force myself to eat?

"I…" I open my mouth, but the words won't come out. "I…"

His steady gaze remains on me, waiting expectantly.

"I'm not okay." And with that confession, all of me deflates. I admitted it. I'm not who I thought I was, not who I pretended to be.

He has a big smile instead. "There we go! So why don't you feel okay?"

I've done it, and I can do it again. "I… I'm trying to be logical. To maximize my odds." Squeeze 'em out, Rina. "But it's not working. I… I feel sick. Like I'm going to vomit."

He nods slowly. "That's not weird, you know? That's completely normal. We're about to start a death match. Best case scenario, one of us won't die."

"But—"

"So let yourself feel it, man," he says. "It doesn't feel good, but if you pretend like nothing's wrong, your body will keep trying to get your attention by making it worse."

Pretend like nothing's wrong… that's what I've been doing all my life.

The words are like knives, but I needed the knives. I take a deep breath and attempt a weak smile. "Well… Thanks."

"Is that what you wanted?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm gonna eat now."

My stomach still feels queasy. My brain is still rushing at a thousand miles an hour. But the volume is manageable now as I acknowledge it.

"Thanks… again," I say, barely louder than a whisper. "I don't know how I'll ever pay you back."

He sighs. "How many times do I have to say it? I don't need payment. I'm just glad to help." Pause. Another sigh. "Now just let me eat breakfast, will ya?"

Barrett Adler, 18, District Ten

I force myself to gulp down the last bite of pancake. My stomach doesn't feel well; it's a miracle I slept at all last night with this roarin' stomach ache. I sigh. I did it. I finished my plate. What a stupid thing to be proud of. My mind wanders to the floor below ours, where Bryson is likely sitting at a table as well, trying to get some food in before our worlds fall apart.

Is he eating? Or has he settled back into that depressive spiral he gets himself into? My knee is bouncing; I want to go see if he's doin' okay, but there's no way I'd ever be allowed to visit. I'll have to settle for a good bear hug in the Arena and make sure he gets food into him once we get out of the Bloodbath.

If we get out of the Bloodbath, that is. There are no guarantees. I might be the strongest untrained tribute, but that just means that the trained ones might gang up on me. And if I go, what'll happen to Bryson? No one else is going to take care of him.

Well, his district partner might, but she has her alliance and it's still a risk. I'm not fixin' to leave him so early on at any rate.

I set my fork down carefully in the center of my plate, cutting the circle into symmetrical halves. There's something about the precise placements that's calming, something beautiful about organization, that takes my mind off of the possibility of imminent doom…

Even before I look up, I can feel Elena's cold eyes on me, boring into me like drill bits of ice. Though her face seems as unfeeling and immovable as always, her plate's still half full. Perhaps her nerves are goin' haywire under that face of steel.

"Hey," I say. "You feelin' alright?"

She clears her throat and speaks quickly. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well…" I nod at her plate. "You ain't hungry?"

"What is it to you? You're my competition."

Ouch. I avert my eyes and focus on my food. This is all unreal. I've barely been able to process that I'm here in the Capitol—and now I'm about to leave! The Hunger Games… are really beginning? We'll… have to kill? Playful Devrell. Timid Evelyn. Sleepy Achan. Kind Integra. Though I haven't met every single one of them yet in person, I've watched the way they interact, laugh, cry, struggle…

And in two weeks only one of us will be left.

There's a tear forming in the corner of my eye, and I blink it back. I'll have a chance to cry later, but now is not that time. Now is the time for strategizin', for plannin', for action.

But what am I fixin' to do? Do I try to win? If it comes down to it, will it be me or Bryson? If I didn't have a family back home, I'd give it to him in a heartbeat, but I've got people at home rooting for me as well.

I feel Elena's cold eyes on me again. This time, her chin is up; her lips are a firm line; she's looking down at me with disdain.

She thinks you're weak.

But that's okay. I wipe at my eyes and smile at her. She looks away.

Our escort comes running in, yelling at us to get to the elevator, and both of us comply, like sheep to the slaughter, following the escort without a single sound.

Meek. Like sheep.

When killing animals, sheep are the easiest to deal with. They're oblivious and trusting. They don't realize that the knife is coming down until it's over for them, so they don't scream as much as other animals do. That's how I feel—like a sheep. I know the Hunger Games await me, but someone, it hasn't fully clicked inside yet. My emotions still haven't accepted it.

Maybe it's better this way.

I glance at Elena again as we wait for the elevator. She's calm, as always, her brown eyes canvassing her environment in distant, calculated confidence. If I'm a sheep, then she's a hunter. I hope she won't hunt me.

But something's amiss. She ain't fully calm; she's shifting her weight back and forth in uncharacteristic impatience and her single hand is balled into a fist.

"Hey," I say, "It's gonna be okay."

She whips her head around—her reflexes are on edge. "I- I know."

That confirms it. She's made it so that all that we see is confidence—and she is confident—but even she's scared, and it shows when I catch her off guard. Below her icy surface, there's still a heart. She's still human.

Do the members of the Star Alliance feel this way? Especially that Two girl?

"We'll be okay," I repeat, cautiously reaching out to pat her on the back. To my surprise, she doesn't fight back. "You… want a hug?"

She shakes her head. "I don't need one."

But she won't look at me anymore, and so I rub her shoulder reassuringly. For a moment, the atmosphere is warm, as if a beam of light has finally broken through her clouds of hail. But then the elevator doors open and she pulls away, still refusing to look at me.

"You're not weak," I whisper, right before we step into the elevator and rise up… up… up… to the Hunger Games.

Evelyn Darby, 15, District Six

My stylist Vita is in front of me, rapidly clop, clop, clopping down the long white hall in her high heels, clasping her stupid purse with her left hand while her other hand grips mine deathly tight. "Hurry now!"

I've barely had a chance to catch my breath since we left the hovercraft and entered the Stockyard below the Arena. Peacekeepers are ahead. Peacekeepers are behind. The air feels thin. I'm trying to keep up as best I can, but no matter how many big gulps of air I take, my body feels weak, barely able to keep up with her breakneck pace. "P-Please—"

"No time! Hurry up!"

But then she stops suddenly before a metal door and my momentum throws me forward, crashing into her. I wince in disgust as I get a faceful of that terrible, terrible perfume that soaks her clothes. She curses and shoves me away. "Dimwit!"

I stumble away from her, hitting the wall behind me. I can't get away from her. There's no escape with the gun-wielding Peacekeepers surrounding me on both sides. Vita gets the door open and grabs my arm, yanking me in.

The launch room is sterile white, with a couch along one wall, a table in the middle, and a bathroom in the corner. Hanging from the wall are the clothes I'll have to wear. In the corner is a circular metal platform in a glass tube with a door cut into it. It's the launch pad that'll bring me to the Arena, where the Bloodbath will be and the killing will be and—

I can't breathe. The walls are closing in, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I heave for oxygen, but it's not enough. My knees buckle and I feel them hit the cold metal floor as my vision blurs and—

I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die.

I can vaguely hear the sound of my own screaming, but none of my thoughts make any sense. A picture of falling, of being stabbed, of the girl from One as she swings her rapier at my neck, a gruesome smile on her face. A slime monster, absorbing me into its gooey clutches. Bombs exploding, fires burning, floors giving way. Darkness closing in, wolves charging in, water rushing in—

I can't breathe!

Hands grab my shoulders, shaking me so hard I feel like my head's about to fall right off. The force cuts the scream off in my throat.

"Evelyn!"

I blink. Vision clears. I'm staring into Vita's angry red eyes. Red eyes. I feel a scream coming up and—

"Evelyn! Get yourself together!"

"I'm going to dieeeee—"

A slap. My cheek stings. "I don't care! Stop it!"

She— She slapped me! I can't think. Nothing's processing. Anything that was about to fly out of my mouth is stuck in stunned paralysis.

She reaches into her pocket. "If you don't cooperate, I'm going to have to sedate you."

Sedate. There are plenty of drug addicts in District Six. An image of their hollowed eyes brings me back to reality. I suck in another breath. "O-Okay."

She whips the clothes off the wall and tosses it to me, as if she's totally disgusted by my very existence. I knew that I was annoying, but am I that bad?

Shakily, I undress and put on the Arena uniforms. A tight-fitting black t-shirt, with the logo of some company on the back. Sturdy khaki pants, with two deep pockets on each leg. An olive-green jacket, made of multiple layers, warm on the inside and waterproof on the outside. Hiking boots, with orange and brown laces, that reach up past my ankle.

Vita cocks her head and taps her chin. "You don't look half-bad."

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are still wet with tears; red, puffy craters sit around my eyes. "T-Thanks…"

She steps behind me and ties my hair back. "There we go! Now eat something! Drink water! We don't want you to die too early, do we?"

She… doesn't want me to die? Without anything to say, I simply stare back with a million questions. She hands me a granola bar, and I take a bite, savoring the flavor. Will this be my last granola bar?

"Don't be silly. Of course I don't want you to die!" she says, "How am I going to get promoted if you die in the bloodbath? They make fun of you if your tribute dies on the first day, you know. But if you win for me… I'll be a star!"

My gut twists in an unfamiliar way. How can she talk like that to my face? I grip the granola bar tighter in my hand until it deforms. Oh… how I hate her! I pull my knees up into a ball and glare at the granola bar because I don't dare lift my eyes to meet her selfish, red eyes. We sit in this weird silence, with her fantasizing about fame and me trying to work up the courage to do anything to get back at her.

"Tributes. Please step onto the metal platforms. I repeat. Please step onto the metal platforms. Launch will begin in 60… 59… 58…"

My heart drops into my stomach and I regret eating anything, even that one single bite, because I might throw up.

If I want to get back at her… It's now or never.

I force myself to meet her cruel gaze— and she's smiling! The audacity!

"Hurry on now!" she says, "Time's running out!"

The speaker continues its horrid countdown. "30… 29… 28…"

I stand up to go, the granola bar in my hand now mashed beyond recognition. My fingers are sticky and gross but I don't have the time to worry about that right now.

She has to know. She has to pay.

"O-Okay…" I say, gulping in oxygen.

She claps her hands. "Ooh! I'm so excited!"

That's it.

I lunge at her and smear the granola bar in her face. "I hate you!"

She screams, flailing and trying to bat me away. "Peacekeepers! I'm being attacked!"

"5… 4… 3…"

I pull back and leap onto the metal plate, a vengeful pleasure rising up inside. Just as the door bursts open and Peacekeepers flood into the room, the tube slides closed.

"Launch initiate."

I almost laugh when I take one last glance at her powdered face, her makeup mixed with bits of oats and chocolate chips. She can't do anything about it! I made it!

But they can get you in the Arena.

My stomach flips. Why did I attack her? How could I have been so stupid! I want to shrink away, curl into a ball, and hide forever, but the tube is too small for that, leaving me standing uncomfortably in the darkness as the metal plate shoots up… and up… and up…

They'll kill me… They'll kill me… They'll kill me…

That's it. I'm done for. I ruined my only chance of survival. If I don't go down in the bloodbath, the Gamemakers will get me in the Arena. What will they send after me? Slime monsters? Wolves? Dinosaurs? Robots?

I'm going to die.

And then I burst into bright natural light and I can't see anything. Before my eyes have a chance to adjust, a booming voice rocks me to my core.

"Let the Thirty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games Begin!"

A/N This ends the Pre-Games.

I don't know if my heart is ready. I've spent hours upon hours reading their forms, visualizing them as real people, trying to understand the way they think, feel, act… And now they're going to begin dropping one by one…

But enough of that. You have at most two days (possibly even one day) until the Meme Competition is over, since the Bloodbath is already 70% done. Get 'em in!

We heard from… Jasmine, Rina, Barrett, and Evelyn. Thoughts?