Oh hey, didn't see you there, welcome to the first fic in the Annihilation-verse: The Children's Crusade. This is a quell idea that I've had in my head for almost a decade now, and it's sick to be back here in this community and finally writing it. I would type out a bunch more info here, but I figure it's probably more chill if I just leave all of that on my profile instead. So check out my profile for all the submission guidelines, worldbuilding info, and my little form.

In the meantime, let me know what you think of the twist and this first prologue, and go ahead and sub away!

افعل الخير

do good

The Presidential Palace

January 2nd, 325 ADD. 1:24 AM

Farah Fulbright, 10

They're shouting again. I try to bury my head in my pillow, but it doesn't block out the noise enough. I can still hear them screaming.

It looks so quiet outside. The snow is falling gently, like each little snowflake is dancing softly across the air. The ground is piling up, inches of white fluff coating everything I can see outside the small, round window beside my bed. The rose gardens, the hedge maze, the golden gates, even the streets that I can barely see if I squint really hard. It's all painted white.

"Farah?"

"Go to sleep, Ayla," I whisper softly.

My little sister pokes her head over the edge of the top bunk, her favorite stuffed animal (Gio the Giraffe this month) clutched tight to her chest.

"I can't," she murmurs.

I sigh. "I know. Me neither."

"Do you think they'll stop soon?"

No. "Maybe."

She bites the corner of her lip in the way that she always does when she's trying to work up the courage to ask something that scares her. It's the same face that she made before she asked me if mom and dad were going to be home for her seventh birthday. It's the same look she gave me before she leaned over the pew at grandpa's funeral and whispered into my ear, "Why aren't mom and dad crying?"

I hate when I can't answer those questions for her. I'm her big sister. I'm supposed to be able to keep her safe and always have the answers. But it always feels like there's more going on around me than I can ever see. It's frustrating.

"Do you know what they're fighting about?" She asks, her voice squeaking.

I don't tell her that I heard one of them say her name. Knowing that won't do her any good. "I'm not sure. I try not to listen."

"Yeah, me too."

The frown on her face makes my heart hurt. "Do you want to do something?" I ask.

She hesitates. "It's too cold to go outside."

"I know. We can do that when it's morning. I can read you a book, though."

"Marshmallows too?" She bargains.

I smile. "Obviously." I roll out of my bed and boop her on the nose. "You stay here and set up the fort, I'll be right back."

"Okay," she says through grinning teeth.

I'm an expert by now at creeping silently through the halls. The door doesn't even squeak when I push it open and slip it shut. I walk on tip-toes through the carpeted halls, using a hand to balance myself on the wall. The shouting is clearer out here. Their voices are coming from the living room, right on the opposite side of the half-wall that separates it and the kitchen.

I crawl to the floor to hide beneath the counter and pull out the big bag of marshmallows without a peep. I'm just about to crawl back out and head back to the room when I overhear something that makes me freeze.

I hear crying. My hands and feet freeze to the floor, my ears perking up as I listen in closer to the shouting match happening just around the corner.

"You know as well as I do that we need a distraction."

"A distraction? That's what you're calling this?"

"Distraction, deflection, call it whatever you want. The facts are that we're treading on thin ice right now. If we don't want to end up like dear father, we need to improve public opinion. Garner some sympathy, receive an excuse to recuse ourselves from the public for some time, enough time for things to calm down. What's two lives in the face of that?"

"Two lives? Your daughters."

"Does the thought of killing kin suddenly chill you?"

"This is different."

"Is it?"

"They're our children!"

"We have two more to spare. If it breaks you up so terribly, we can always make more. Don't pretend you hold any special love for them. You can play the moral high ground all you want, but you know as well as I do—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't act like this is our decision. Do whatever you're going to do, just don't pretend that it's anybody's doing but your own."

"Of course. Of course! I'm always the bad guy, because your hands are so clean!"

A door swings open and is slammed shut. I hear one of them still pacing back and forth in the living room, their footsteps pounding against the floor. I don't dare even breathe, trying to still my heart while I wait for them to leave.

A minute later, they stomp away, following through the same door and clicking it shut behind them. As soon as the door is closed, I scamper to my feet, running on tip-toes through the hall and back to my room.

When I slither back inside, marshmallow bag in hand, I must look as scared as I feel. Ayla's smile drops, her whole body freezing as she's halfway through tying a sheet around our bunk.

"Nearly got caught," I lie quickly before she can ask. "Stubbed my toe on a corner and came this close to screaming."

She giggles and I let out a breath and smile.

I don't get to be scared. I'm her big sister. That means it's my job to keep her safe. To protect her from everything, no matter how much it scares me or how little I understand it.

The Presidential Palace

January 4th, 325 ADD. 11:57 AM

Ayla Fulbright, 7

Being in front of the cameras always makes me nervous. My hands are sweaty and the stupid shimmery fabric of my dress doesn't help me one bit with wiping it off. Farah reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. I squeeze back.

Dad is up on the podium, speaking to all the hundreds of people down below in our garden. There's even more people watching, too. Farah said that everybody in the entire country has to watch, because the thing he has to say is just that important. She said she doesn't know what it is, though.

Oman and Aker are here for it too. I haven't seen them since grandpa died. Farah says they've been staying with friends for a little while. I think that's one of the reasons mom and dad have been fighting even more than usual lately. Farah never said that, but I can tell it's true.

Neither of them look happy. We're lined up in our seats oldest to youngest, so Oman is way at the end, then Aker, then Farah, then me. Mom is standing next to dad, a hand on his shoulder. They both look happier than I can remember them being in a long time.

Farah nudges me and leans in to whisper. "This is the important part."

"Okay," I whisper back.

I straighten up my back the way I've been practicing and listen in as close as I can. Dad is holding up a golden envelope with 325 written on it, which the crowd seems really excited about.

"It is a great personal sadness that my father-in-law isn't here today to witness the fruits of his labor to bring peace and prosperity to all in Panem. But I will proudly carry on his legacy of greatness and with great pride, begin this new age of progress with something that will surely unite all of Panem in celebration. The 13th ever Quarter Quell!

"But first, I have a special announcement. Twenty-five years ago, the citizens of the Capitol got the opportunity to send tributes of their own to the Hunger Games. I am here to announce that from this year forward, the Capitol will join hand in hand with the districts in sending their own tributes to compete in the Hunger Games!"

Farah's hand squeezes mine tighter. I look over at her and she looks like a ghost. I try to squeeze her hand back, but she's holding so tight that I can barely feel my fingers. I don't say anything, though. I keep holding on and turn back to dad. He's just finished opening up the envelope and is reading from a card.

"For the 325th Annual Hunger Games, to remind our nation that in the dark days we knowingly sacrificed the lives of those who we were meant to protect, the tribute who is initially reaped can choose to instead be replaced by their youngest sibling. To facilitate this: instead of the usual reaping brackets, any children aged 18 or younger with at least one younger sibling aged 7 or older will be eligible to be reaped."

The crowd cheers so loud that it hurts. I wince and bring my hands up to cover my ears. Next to me, Farah is shaking, and not because it's loud or cold. Shakily, I bring one of my hands away from my ear and grab her hand again.

"It's okay, Farah," I whisper. I'm not sure at first if she can even hear me.

After a few seconds, though, she nods her head and smiles at me. "Yeah, 'course it is."

I know she thinks that I fall for those smiles. She always gives them when things aren't okay and she's trying to pretend they are. Right now though, I just want her to feel like she doesn't need to be scared. So I smile back.

The crowd hasn't gotten any quieter, even though dad is done speaking and has stepped back from the podium. Aker and Oman both look even angrier than they were before. Both of them look ready to run as soon as the curtain closes. Big banners fall from the rooftop with the number 325 on them. Confetti is flying and a few fireworks start popping and exploding in the sky. Most people seem to be looking at that now.

I wonder if everyone else can see the tears in mommy's eyes.

وارميه في البح

and throw it in the sea

[A quick re-stating of the quell twist in case there's any confusion: anybody who is age 7-18 and has at least one younger sibling aged 7 or older is eligible to be reaped. No volunteers. Once somebody is reaped, they have two options: 1) accept that they've been reaped and go into the Hunger Games, or 2) choose to have their youngest sibling (aged 7 or older) replace them instead.]