Interlude

Daniel Hollins, 32 Years Old
District One Victor, 77th Hunger Games

"I wish there was some way I could control the variables, but if the time in darkness taught me anything, it's that the world is larger than my grasp." ~Pierce Brown

I wasn't sure what I should expect anymore.

I used to think that once we had a victor or two under our belts, the Career system of old could return. We used to be pushing ourselves to the limit, trying to out-pace districts two and four, but ever since the rebellion, the playing field has been drastically leveled. It worked because even though district one wasn't the worst place to live, there was always some sense of safety and respect that came from being a victor, and that yes, that was something to potentially risk your life for, but from what I heard, there were some people starting to reconsider if it was even worth it prior to the 75th games.

The purge of victors after the rebellion made certain that it was not going to be as much of a draw as it had been in the past, but it's been worse than some of us were thinking it would be. Who knows, maybe the reality check of the purge showed us that being kept in the spotlight, while having its benefits, could be harmful in the long run. The academy has still been open, and is often crowded, but it's seemed that less people are there to actually train. Instead, they're just looking for something to do, and often aren't taking the lessons seriously enough to have enough effect if they were to go into the games.

But maybe that's just me. Maybe, as young as I am, I had seen too much of what it could have been in the past. We're now at a time where none of the tributes would have been more than a newborn during the last rebellion, and the current decline that we're on is just one of many ups and downs the Career districts sometimes have. But I don't think so. I still recall when you could look up at the stages for the reapings and you would know just from the stage whether you were looking at the Careers or the outer-districts. Now? If they were all set with the same background, you could barely tell them apart, and you'd maybe correctly begin to wonder what could be different now with the Careers and if it was worth it.

After I'd won my games at only sixteen, I'd been hoping that would reignite the fire that the Career districts used to have, and it did, but it seems that it dwindled just as quickly. A few years ago, I would have pointed to this year and the years around it as a potential hot-spot for victors, but now I'm no longer sure if a hot-spot would even exist. We had the largest group at the academy since the rebellion less than three years ago, and some had been training for the games since they started school, but now I've had multiple potential tributes, no, potential victors, come up to me in the past months and say that they would continue their training, as they wanted to complete it, but that they had no intention of representing our district.

Maybe they have the right idea, that while it's good to be prepared, there is no reason to unnecessarily throw yourself into a fight to the death with 23 other teenagers, and that they're content with their lives in District One without needing their chance for glory, for honor, and their time in the spotlight, but I still hold out hope that maybe some of them will change their minds. Without another spark in the turnout of trainees, there's no guarantee that one day instead of being faced with having under-aged volunteers like myself, we could be faced with the whole different problem of having tributes with little to no training at all. If we got that far, maybe then the district would be encouraged to look back and see how good having a steady Career system had been. I fear if we get to that point, we will then be too far gone to turn back. Maybe we're too far down that path already, but I will do my best to at least attempt to reignite the competitive fire we once had. It's all I can do.

Athena Arkose, Peacekeeper

I hate Reaping Day.

Not for the same reason most people out here in the districts do. Two kids from our district being ripped from their families, sent off to almost certain deaths, et cetera, et cetera. Personally, I don't think it's a lot of fun watching kids tear each other to pieces, but if people out here were honest with themselves, they'd realize worse things happen pretty much every day here in the outer districts.

There are children starving every day. Why is it worse when some of them happen to starve to death in the Games? People die here on a regular basis for much flimsier reasons than a little entertainment. Maybe someone walked down the wrong street on the wrong night. Maybe a morphling deal gone bad. Or maybe they mouthed off to the wrong Peacekeeper.

Problem is, those 'wrong peacekeepers' tend to be more common around Reaping Day. The newer recruits are all on edge, worried that every new tribute might turn out to be the next Mockingjay. It probably won't happen. It almost certainly won't happen this soon. I've been around the block long enough to know that, but saying so isn't going to stop the greener Peacekeepers from being anxious.

And when they're anxious, it rubs off on everyone. It's almost like the crowds can smell it. Most of them aren't stupid enough to try anything outright rebellious, of course, but they're always more tense. And it doesn't take much to make a tense group of people snap.

Everything breaks if you apply the right force. That's what my brother always says. Of course, he was talking about engineering, not people, but the same principle applies. Under the right pressure, the right circumstances, the right amount of tension, everything breaks. Everyone breaks.

It's our job to make sure we're not the ones who break. To make sure it's not the law that breaks. To make sure that the peace isn't broken – only bent. We're Peacekeepers, after all. It's not a fun job. It's not an easy one. It's thankless and frustrating and sometimes dangerous. But it's necessary. We're necessary. That's what I keep telling myself.

So far, I've always managed to believe it.

Harvey Moquette, Avox

It still feels wrong, somehow.

I close my eyes as I sink a little deeper into the bed. It isn't a particularly nice bed as far as Capitol standards are concerned, but it's still worlds better than anything I had back in District Eight, and certainly better than anything I had to sleep on during the rebellion. I was in the trenches, so to speak, running back and forth, delivering messages here and there. I was a kid, but I wanted to feel like I was doing my part, even if it got me killed.

But it didn't get me killed. It got me captured. At first, I was sure that was going to be worse. And it might have been, if one of the older prison guards hadn't taken pity on me. He told me that if I was good, if I was obedient, if I cooperated, then he would make sure things worked out for me. I was just a kid in the trenches, just a messenger. I didn't know any secrets – none they hadn't learned by the time they caught me, anyway. If I had, though, I'm sure I would have spilled them in an instant. I was so scared, I would have told them anything.

There was nothing to tell, so I kept my mouth shut. I kept my head down. I behaved, unlike some of the other prisoners who were always causing trouble. Once it was all over, some of them were executed. Some of them were sent back to the districts. And some of us were selected to become avoxes.

See, when the rebellion broke out, some of the Capitolites turned on their avoxes, afraid that they would side with the rebels and kill them in their sleep or something. So there was a shortage, and the wealthier families were always looking for obedient, cooperative servants. I'd spent weeks – maybe months, even – proving just how obedient I was. I was an obvious choice.

It's supposed to be a punishment, I know. But sometimes it feels like a reward. I was never much of a talker even when I could speak, and now no one expects me to. And in return, I get to live here, in the Capitol. I have my own room – a small room, yes, but one that's mine, that I don't have to share with five brothers and sisters. I can't really taste my food properly, but my stomach is always full; there's always plenty left over for all of us.

The truth is, my life is pretty good.

It sometimes feels wrong – enjoying it. I know there are people back in the districts who have it bad. Maybe worse than I ever did. But the sad truth is, there's nothing I can do about that. Those of us who fought in the rebellion know there's nothing we can do about it. We tried. We failed. All we can do is make the best of what we have left.

And I have more left than most.

Genesis Roslin, Cook

It's all about the small things, really. A dash of seasoning here. A few herbs there. Nothing that would be considered particularly extravagant in the Capitol. But here, on a train heading towards the outer districts … well, this food must seem practically heavenly. Or at least, it will to the tributes we're about to have the pleasure of hosting.

It probably doesn't seem like a very important job – cooking on one of the trains that takes the tributes to the Capitol. It's certainly not very exciting – not compared to the festivities as a whole. But to the tributes … that's different. It's almost certainly their first taste of Capitol food. For some of them, it's the first full, filling meal they've eaten in their short lives. The look on their faces when they taste it – that's something to live for.

Most of them don't notice me, of course. They have more important things on their minds. I'm just another face on the train, just another Capitolite here to help the festivities run smoothly. The people I get to meet – the escorts, the mentors, and especially the tributes themselves – they get all the spotlight. But the truth is, the Games couldn't happen without so many people like me.

I'm a part of it. Maybe not a big part, but a part, nonetheless. I'm part of something that people will remember, something that will last. In some small way, I've contributed. And for a few hours, I've made the tributes' lives a little better. I've made their bellies a little fuller, a little warmer, a little more content.

Contentment – that's the feeling, really. The feeling that washes over me as we finally reach the district. Soon, the tributes will arrive. They'll be frightened, worried, anxious. They'll need reassuring, someone to remind them that it's going to be all right. Even if it isn't.

Especially if it isn't.

Words can't do that. Not really. Their families will try. Their mentors will try. Maybe even their escorts will try to find the right words to calm them, to reassure them. But the truth is, there's nothing quite as reassuring as a good meal. It's called the Hunger Games, after all, because in the end, it's food that nourishes us, that keeps us alive, that reminds us that we are alive.

Right now, words can't help them. Words can't calm them. But I can. Not in a big way, but in a small way. With a bowl, a plate, a spoon full of the best food they've ever tasted. A silent reminder that there's something good waiting for them, something worth living for.

It's a small thing, maybe, but I wouldn't have it any other way.