Prologue: Crystal Ball

It was the dawning of the twelfth day. The splintered remains of the career pack dug feverishly at the gray rock beneath the cornucopia.

The pair had been working for quite some time, having been roused from their sleep some hours ago by a high-pitched whine. This year's cornucopia was nestled at the bottom of a deep pit of rock. Spiral pathways up the walls led up to ground level. The pit showed signs of having been previously dug, making the rock more pliable and their job easier.

The boy from District Two swung his pickaxe with relish at the ground. Between this year's shoddy excuse for a career pack, the meager, poorly placed cornucopia, and the general lack of action over the past week, frustration had been agglomerating in his mind like a blood clot. Every strike was a release. He smiled with grim satisfaction at the though of what they might find. Maybe this would be the weapon to finally put an end to these blasted games.

The boy from District Three worked quietly with a spade. He had a crazed look about him and would stop every so often to wince. Musically trained, he had insisted he could hear a humming from the moment the pack had first set foot in the cornucopia. Whatever was down there had been slowly chipping away at his sanity and sleep ever since. But it was electronic. That much was clear. And he winced again and thought of finally being able to make sense out of something in this infernal arena. He dug faster.

At last, the pickaxe strike rung out like a bell. There was something buried beneath here after all. Something metal. The two boys exchanged curt grins and hastened to clear away the layer of stone. The metal sheet was seemingly attached to something quite large. The grins disappeared. Who knew how long clearing the rest of the stone away would take?

The drone increased in pitch.

A small inscription had been carved into the metal. The boy from Three bent down to read it. He came up wide-eyed and ashen.

"What sort of rock is this?" he rasped.

The boy from Two rubbed a few flakes between his fingers. "Graphite."

No sooner than the word had escaped him, he added up the pieces. Save the dark rings around his eyes, he grew very white indeed. "They wouldn't."

"We gotta get out of here, now."

Tools forgotten, the two remaining careers sprinted as far from the center of the pit as they could manage. They forcefully stumbled their way up the path. They scrabbled for handholds and sent loose stones flying. The boy from Three gave a cry as the drone—now a cacophonous siren—split the air. The sound gnawed at his eardrums. This was more abrasive than nails on a blackboard. It was like the interference from two microphones—wired directly into his brain.

So loud…and so hot…the air scalding…could swear his shoes were melting…

The explosion swallowed them both before they even had time to hear it.

For the eight surviving tributes, the blast sent shockwaves to the core.

Both District Ten tributes, laying low in the ocher wheat fields, were jolted from rest. What they had first taken to be a brilliant sunrise emerging from the stalks burned white-hot before their eyes. Waves of heat sent ripples through the grain. The flames weren't far behind.

The pair cut a frantic path through the field. The fire glowed brightly behind them, devouring stalks, leaving behind flaky, charred remains. But it wasn't enough. It was hungry for flesh. They ran even as the flames bit at their heels, as the smoke coiled above the flames in an intricate dance.

They made for the pond, unaware that within mere minutes of finding refuge, one of them would be boiled alive.

In a tunnel beneath the earth, two tributes circled each other: the boy from Five, an array of gleaming throwing knives on his belt, the girl from Twelve, armed with a sledgehammer. The explosion had caught them off guard, but they were prepared to dismiss it.

Until the girl sniffed the air and stiffened.

She swung ferociously, nowhere near her opponent. Instead, her hammer reduced a wooden support to splinters. The boy, who had laughingly tried to take advantage of the opening by throwing a knife, had to instead dive out of the way of a shower of rocks and dust. By the time he rose, she was already sprinting away. Grumbling, he attempted to shift some of the rock. His hands blackened with fine powder.

He suddenly paused in his efforts. Had he smelled it then? The odor of an overheated engine?

Another explosion. Another drowned-out cannon.

At the top of a lone tree that stood twice the height of the forest around it, the young girl from District Seven fumbled with the rope around her waist. The wood roared with flame beneath her. Her eyes stung with smoke and tears.

For a remarkable three hours, news outlets were very taken by her death. Countless online articles called it "The Burning at the Stake." They would soon be buried in countless more, and viewers would forget all about it.

By the end of the day, the Centennial Games saw its final four emerge from the ashes. The names of the six who had met their deaths were quickly left behind.

Before the very eyes of the remaining tributes, the Arena turned to dust. Painted with shadow. Bathed in flame.

The picture froze during an aerial shot of flame-consumed hellscape.

"Ladies and gentlemen, host of the Crystal Ball News Hour, and your commentator for the one-hundred-and-first Hunger Games…Scion Vox!"

The spotlight flared to life to reveal a slight man lounging in the host's chair. The silver in his hair, tooth, and fingernails twinkled under the lights. His crystal eye scattered rainbows into the air.

"Please, folks, let's give our guest some credit." He waved a hand. His every motion caught the eye with a sparkle. "I give you Isbeth Elan, mastermind behind that wonderfully explosive finale!"

The public face of the Gamemakers swiveled her own chair to turn her back on the carnage behind her. She had dressed to match her handiwork. A layered, orange gown twinkling with black gemstones at the bodice graced her features. Her red hair, left loose, clashed rather pleasingly with the garment.

"Scion, dear, you don't know how happy you made me!" Isbeth beamed. "It's every designer's dream to be called a mastermind, you know!"

"It's the truth, Isbeth! I don't get paid to whisper sweet nothings in your ear. If I could, I'd be the first to admit you might not have a host anymore." The Capitol roared with laughter at their feet. "Of course, it's only fair that you share such remarkable intelligence with the rest of us. How about a spoiler or two for this year's Arena? What can we expect?" Scion assumed a curious posture and prepared himself to appear surprised.

It was all an act, of course. The most careful man in the Capitol, Scion believed firmly that the time for research came well before, not during, any interview. He knew what his guests would bring to the discussion long before they thought it themselves.

Once in his grasp, the information was his to spin.

"Well…I'm really not supposed to…" There was silence, a collective, held breath. Isbeth traced the curvature of her upper lip with her tongue. "Let's just say…I'm expanding my repertoire this year."

"No explosion this time?" Scion pouted. Some laughed. Others mimicked him.

"No," Isbeth laughed, "we've decided to go…subtler this year. Subtle can be thrilling too, though. It's the excitement that grabs you when you least expect it."

Scion nodded. "Well said, my dear Gamemaker. I can't say I won't miss that wildfire though."

"Well, what we've got is definitely more…catching than a wildfire." Isbeth seemed to catch herself. "And that's all you're getting from me, you rascal!"

Scion winked conspiratorially at the audience, and the Capitol was sold.

"If I may," Scion continued amidst the uproar, "Head Gamemaker Nikia Long said in her most recent public statement that the best designers weave stories into their work. What I want to know is…what on earth can the story be behind such an explosion?"

"Simple." Isbeth shifted forward. "Left unchecked, the Districts can only pose danger to one another. It is the guiding hand of the Capitol that can truly unite them and lead them to reach their true value."

Murmurs of agreement swept like ripples through the audience. The poor, backwards Districts. So set in their ways and persistent in their warmongering.

"And this year?" Scion pressed, eagerness evident in his voice.

But to that end Isbeth's lips were sealed for the rest of the night. This, as it turns out, was exactly what Scion had anticipated.

Nothing spiked viewing figures like a restless audience.

Author's Note:

Hi, Grey here with one final, cobbled-together prologue chapter before I get to tackle some of these reapings. Think of it as my action-writing warm-up piece.

I'm excited with who I've received so far, and I sincerely hope I can do them justice. If you're reading this and haven't yet submitted a tribute, I implore you to do so! There's plenty of room at the party, and I promise they'll be well taken care of. Until they're, you know, horrifically murdered. See Chapter 2 for a list of available spots. Don't be afraid to reach out with any questions, or just to chat! I love making new friends.

A special thanks to all those who've reviewed thus far! For a developing writer, reviews are like tiny love letters, even the more critical ones. :) Needless to say reviews make my day. There are also sponsor points and virtual hugs at stake, if that at all prompts you.

Cheers,

Grey