Chapter One
Dyson gazed at the mirror. A fifteen-year-old boy of medium height with red hair and brown eyes looked back at him, a boy whose face bore the resigned expression of someone who was about to face something they knew was unpleasant, but which could not be avoided. And that expression would be mirrored on the faces of pretty much all the older kids in District 5. For today was the day when two of them would be chosen at random to become the district's tributes in the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games.
The Hunger Games. The cruel punishment that had been inflicted on the districts for their attempt, nearly seventy years earlier, to overthrow their rulers in the Capitol. Twenty-four kids between twelve and eighteen years old, a boy and a girl from each district, taken from their families and thrown into an arena to fight to the death until only one was left alive as the entire population was forced to watch on television. That was how the Capitol maintained its iron grip on the nation of Panem, by sacrificing the lives of several of their young people every year in a grim reminder that they had the power of life and death over everyone. And the whole ghastly thing was supposed to be treated as a festival, a sporting contest which pitted the districts against each other. As if to reflect this, everyone was expected to dress up for the reaping ceremonies which took place in each district's main square.
Hence Dyson's current outfit: an ivory shirt and a pair of smart charcoal grey trousers held up by braces, with black lace-up shoes on his feet. The outfit he had picked out last night. The outfit which he would wear while waiting for Janus Waite, the flamboyant man from the Capitol who served as District 5's Hunger Games escort, to draw the names from the reaping balls. And then would come the request for volunteers, which was sure to be met with a silence which would condemn the chosen kids to almost certain death. District 5 was the richest of the non-Career districts, but it was still a non-Career district and it was usually the Career districts that had people stepping forward to volunteer.
This was the fourth year Dyson had faced the reaping, but it didn't get any easier. Every year since he'd turned twelve, he had stood in the square, hoping desperately that his name would not be called, then feeling bad for the boy who was called, knowing his odds of coming back alive were slim. District 5 hadn't won the Games in Dyson's lifetime, their most recent victor having taken the crown more than a decade before he was born. More likely it would be a Career tribute from District 1, 2 or 4 who emerged victorious; better food, the Capitol's favour and a lifetime training for the Games had long given tributes from these three districts an advantage over those from the other nine.
"Three more years," Dyson told himself. After today, there would be only another three years in which he would have to stand behind the ropes with the others of reaping age, then he would be safe. "Just gotta hang on for three more years . . ." His little ritual for getting through this day which would end with him either safe for another year or on his way to the Capitol.
A knock on his bedroom door distracted him from his thoughts. "Dyson?" a male voice called from outside. Dyson's father, Rodd Kinsella. "It's time to go, son," Rodd added as Dyson opened the door. "Your mom and Tia are waiting."
The Kinsella family walked to the square in silence. Rodd and his wife, Zeta. Dyson and his younger sister, Tia. At twelve, the latter was about to face her first reaping and, if there was one thing Dyson dreaded more than having his own name drawn, it was that Tia might end up in the arena at an age when she would have little chance of winning the Games. No twelve- or thirteen-year-olds, and very few fourteen-year-olds, had ever emerged as victor. Which wasn't to say that one of the younger tributes couldn't win, but they were usually among the smallest kids in the arena and, as such, were likely to be targetted by those looking to eliminate weaklings. But there was nothing Dyson could do to prevent his sister from being reaped. Nothing except hope it wouldn't happen. Even volunteering to take her place should her name be the one Janus pulled out of the girls' reaping ball wasn't an option for him; the rules stated that a volunteer had to be the same gender as the tribute they were replacing. Still, he told himself, at least Tia, as a twelve-year-old with no tesserae, was only entered once. In some of the poorer districts, where families were often desperate for the extra rations of grain and oil claiming tesserae provided, kids could amass large numbers of entries.
The moment they reached the square, the Kinsellas found themselves faced with a squad of stern-faced Peacekeepers, who took their details and directed Dyson and Tia to the roped-off areas reserved for those of reaping age. Meanwhile, Rodd and Zeta joined those who were either too old or too young for the reaping around the edge. Normally, they would have been working at one of District 5's power plants, but, since they had children eligible for the reaping, they had been given the day off so that they could attend the ceremony. Not that they would have been able to escape the reaping even if they'd been part of one of the skeleton crews which kept the plants running while everyone else assembled in the square; televisions were set up in each plant to make sure those who had to work through the reaping didn't miss anything. And then there was the recap of all twelve reapings which would be broadcast tonight.
Rodd and Zeta clasped hands and waited to learn their children's fate.
Dyson stood with the other fifteen-year-old boys who lived in District 5, his gaze directed towards the stage which had been set up in the square, as it had been on this day every year since the Hunger Games began. Soon, two kids would have their names drawn from the two large balls, one for the boys and one for the girls, which stood on the stage along with a microphone on a stand and five chairs. One of those chairs was occupied by Mayor Palin, a balding middle-aged man, who, as the town clock struck to signal the start of the reaping, got to his feet and crossed over to the microphone. Clearing his throat, he began to address the assembled crowd.
Mayor Palin's speech was exactly the same as the one given by the mayors of all twelve districts on this day, the words unchanged since the time of the First Hunger Games. It told of how the nation of Panem had risen from the ruins of a world devastated by a combination of war and ecological catastrophe, how the districts had rebelled against the Capitol, how District 13 had been obliterated, how the remaining twelve districts had then surrendered, how the Hunger Games had been created to remind the people in the districts that the Capitol was prepared to sacrifice the nation's youth rather than allow a repeat of the Dark Days. "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," Mayor Palin intoned. "And, as we prepare to select our latest tributes, it is also a time to honour our past victors. Aurora Challis, victor of the Ninth Hunger Games. Piper Hale, victor of the Thirty-seventh Hunger Games. Rik Massey, victor of the Forty-second Hunger Games."
Everyone's gaze turned towards the victors, all of whom were seated on the stage. Aurora, a grey-haired woman in her seventies who had won at a time when the Games consisted of throwing the tributes into an otherwise disused sports stadium, then leaving them to murder each other with the weapons provided, sat on the chair second from the left, next to the one Mayor Palin had recently occupied. Piper, on Aurora's other side, looked as though she was lost in thought, though she did raise her head when Mayor Palin read out her name. And Rik, District 5's most recent and only male victor, made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was drinking from a hip flask; he belched loudly, momentarily forgetting that today's ceremony was being broadcast across Panem.
Deciding the best course of action would be to carry on as if nothing had happened, Mayor Palin cleared his throat and introduced Janus Waite. Not that District 5's Hunger Games escort needed any introduction; with his white hair streaked with lavender and his plum-coloured velvet suit, a look he had sported every year for the past ten years, it was impossible to miss him. He got up from his seat and, stepping up to the microphone, shouted: "Hello, District 5! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favour!" The only response he got was a smattering of applause; everyone knew whose favour the odds were in when it came to the Games - and it wasn't the districts.
As the applause, such as it was, died down, Janus walked over to one of the reaping balls, the one containing the names of every girl in District 5 who was between twelve and eighteen years old. "Well now," he said, "let's find out who our girl tribute's going to be . . ." With that, he plunged his hand straight into the ball and, after groping around for a few seconds, pulled out a single, carefully folded slip of paper. Hurrying to the microphone, he opened the slip and prepared to read out the name it contained.
Behind the ropes, Dyson crossed his fingers and willed Janus to call out any name except Tia Kinsella. If her one entry had been drawn . . . Visions of her being cornered by the Career pack, attacked by mutts, struggling just to stay alive flashed through his mind. Like any younger sister, she could be annoying at times, but the last thing he wanted was for her to end up in the Hunger Games, especially when she was too young to stand much chance of surviving the horrors to come.
However, Dyson didn't have long to dwell on the grim possibility of losing his sister to the Capitol's sadistic Games before Janus called out the name he'd just drawn. "Astra Maddox!"
Dyson's relief that Tia had been spared was quickly tempered as he watched Astra emerge from the midst of the girls and make her way to the stage. She was older than his sister, but only by a year, a slightly built thirteen-year-old who looked like the type who would be dead five minutes into the bloodbath. Strawberry blonde hair framed a face which was set into an expression of mute resignation as she walked the length of the passage separating the boys and the girls. All eyes were on her as she mounted the stage and stood facing the crowd, her hands clasped in front of her, as Janus introduced her and asked for volunteers.
It was traditional once someone's name had been called at the reaping to call on other eligible kids of the same gender as the one who had been chosen to volunteer as tribute in their place. In most districts, however, volunteers were the exception rather than the rule; few kids were prepared to risk their lives in the arena, even for friends and family. Only in Districts 1, 2 and 4, where being a tribute was seen as a great honour, could volunteers be counted on to step forward. But District 5 was not a Career district, so the answer when Janus asked if any of the other girls was willing to take Astra's place was the same as the year before, and the year before that. Several girls shuffling their feet, but none of them making any move towards the stage.
"Well, it doesn't look like we have any takers," Janus said once the time allocated for volunteers to come forward had elapsed. "And that means we must move on to the gentlemen," he added, moving towards the boys' reaping ball and repeating his performance of a few minutes earlier. Reaching into the ball. Pulling out a slip. Hurrying back to the microphone. Unfolding the slip and reading out the name.
"Dyson Kinsella!"
Though Dyson had feared this moment, the moment when his name was drawn from the reaping ball, for as long as he could remember, he'd never expected it to actually happen. After all, there were hundreds of boys of reaping age in District 5 and, with few kids in the district claiming tesserae, everyone's odds were pretty much the same as those of everyone else. Even so, on this day every year since he'd first become eligible, he'd repeated his annual ritual of telling himself he just had to hang on until the Seventy-first Games came around. That was the year he would turn eighteen and, if he escaped the reaping that year, he would be safe.
But he hadn't escaped the reaping. One of the four slips containing his name had just been drawn and that meant he had no choice but to step up and take his place on the stage; if he didn't, he risked being dragged to the front by the Peacekeepers who were stationed around the perimeter of the square, watching the proceedings. Not only that, failing to make yourself known once your name had been called at the reaping could be interpreted as an act of rebellion, which could have serious repercussions for yourself and for your family. Turning to his left, he shook hands with his friend, Trent Saxon, for what might well be the last time. Then, steeling himself, he began to make his way to the stage, feeling as he did so the eyes of everyone present trained on him.
Dyson mounted the stage and stood next to Astra as Janus introduced him and asked for volunteers from among the boys. Again, no-one stepped forward; in fact, most of those who could have taken his place seemed to be doing their best to look in any direction except at the stage. Dyson had seen this before at other reapings, kids averting their eyes when the request for volunteers was made, unwilling to risk their lives in the arena. Even Trent, despite having been Dyson's friend since the two of them started school, showed no sign of moving, not that this was unusual outside the Career districts. When it came to the reaping, loyalty to one's friends only went so far.
And that, Dyson realised, could only mean one thing: he was going to the Hunger Games.
As Mayor Palin began to recite the Treaty of Treason, Dyson's mind automatically shut him out. He knew the whole thing word for word, having heard it at this time every year for as long as he could remember, and could recite it from memory, not that he wanted to. And he certainly hadn't wanted to become a tribute. But his name had been drawn at the reaping and no-one had volunteered to take his place. Even if he tried to make a run for it, he wouldn't get far before the Peacekeepers caught him. And the Capitol were sure to make an example of anyone who tried to escape the sadistic punishment which had been imposed on the districts because of a rebellion which had taken place long before he was even born. The whole thing sucked, but he had no choice but to take part and put his life on the line.
Finishing his recitation, Mayor Palin directed Astra and Dyson to shake hands; they did so without looking each other directly in the eye. Then, the national anthem played, there was some mandatory applause and the two tributes were escorted into District 5's Justice Building, both of them flanked by Peacekeepers whose faces were set into the grim expression that was characteristic of their line of work. Indeed, Dyson did not recall ever seeing a Peacekeeper smile, not once in the fifteen years he had lived.
"You have one hour," one of the Peacekeepers escorting Dyson said as they drew level with one of the rooms in the Justice Building and Dyson was waved inside. "If you got anything to say to your friends and family, you'd better say it now." With that, he and his comrade marched away, leaving Dyson to contemplate his surroundings and await the moment when his loved ones came to say goodbye for what would almost certainly be the last time. The next time his parents and Tia saw him, he could be dead, another victim of the Capitol's cruel Games. He wondered how he would die. At the hands of a fellow tribute? In a mutt attack? From exposure to the elements? Whichever it was, his friends and family would be forced to watch; the Hunger Games had been mandatory viewing since early in their second decade.
Before Dyson could spend too long dwelling on this, Rodd and Zeta entered, followed by Tia. The moment she saw her brother, Tia ran to him and flung her arms round his neck, her eyes wet with tears. "I wish you didn't have to go, Dy," she sobbed, burying her face in his shirt, wanting more than anything to be told there had been a mistake, that it was another boy whose name had been drawn from the reaping ball. But, in her heart, she knew there had been no mistake and the brother she had looked up to all her life would soon be thrust into a contest where defeat meant certain death.
Despite himself, Dyson couldn't help smiling at Tia's use of her pet name for him. "So do I," he told her, stroking her auburn hair, which she wore in a braid down her back. "But I don't have a choice; no-one who gets picked at the reaping does. You just have to do your best and . . ." He trailed off as it occurred to him that, when it came to the Hunger Games, his best was unlikely to be good enough, especially if he came up against the Careers. The tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 had spent their whole lives training for the Games, whereas he and the others from outside the Career districts would only have a few days to learn how to wield a spear, to throw a knife, to fire an arrow. And then there was the fact that the Careers traditionally formed a pack to hunt down their fellow tributes; that was how his counterpart from last year had been killed.
He shook his head. Thinking about what had happened in previous Hunger Games wouldn't help him to survive the arena. As he had told Tia, he would have to do the best he could, try to stay alive as long as possible, whether he was eliminated on the first day or made it into the final eight. Of course, that meant he would almost certainly have to kill someone, possibly even his own district partner, though he would rather not. He didn't know Astra personally, but murdering a thirteen-year-old was a line he wasn't prepared to cross. There were tributes who were willing to kill anyone who stood between them and victory regardless of how young they were, but he wasn't one of them.
At length, he pulled away from his sister and looked at her seriously. "Tia," he said, "whatever happens to me, I want you to be brave for Mom and Dad's sake. And, in case I don't come back alive . . ." He paused, trying to compose himself; the last thing he wanted to do right now was break down. ". . . you're the best kid sister a guy could ask for."
"And you're the best big brother," Tia said, smiling through her tears.
Dyson spent the next few minutes chatting with his parents, not about his impending departure for the Capitol, but about the things he and Tia had done when they were little. The games they used to play. Starting school for the first time. The time his Second Grade class had been taken on a tour of the power plant where Rodd and Zeta worked and he'd wandered away from the others. Anything that wasn't even remotely connected to the Hunger Games.
All too soon, the Peacekeeper from before came in and told the Kinsellas their time was up. Dyson was given only a few seconds to embrace his parents and sister before they were escorted out of the room and the door was shut behind them.
Dyson had barely said goodbye to the closed door when Trent entered the room, followed by his twin sister, Paula. The latter, he noticed for the first time, was quite an attractive girl, tall with reddish-brown hair and brown eyes. And her body, while still developing, was showing a strong hint of the woman she would be in a few years' time. Without meaning to, he found himself checking her out, only to stop himself when he realised there was no point, not when he was about to be sent to the Hunger Games. He backed off a pace.
"Dyson?" Paula said. "Are you OK?"
He shrugged, trying to act casual. "Sure. I was just thinking about how I might never see you guys again." Even so, he felt a fluttering sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with apprehension about what lay ahead of him and everything to do with her. Why, he asked himself, did he have to start fancying her now of all times? He'd been friends with the Saxon twins since they were five years old, so why had he suddenly noticed how attractive Paula was?
"You will," Trent assured him. "You just have to outlive all the others." If only it was that simple, but he, Dyson and Paula all knew winning the Hunger Games almost always meant you had to be prepared to kill. A few tributes had won by outlasting their opponents, but not many and only one in the lifetime of anyone currently eligible for the Games.
Paula reached round and removed the silver pendant in the shape of a crescent moon which she wore around her neck, holding it out to Dyson. "Here," she said as she placed it in the palm of his hand. "You can wear this in the arena. To remind you of home and . . ." She paused for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. ". . . of me." She closed his fingers around the pendant and looked him full in the face. "Promise me that you'll do your best to win. And, in case you need a little extra motivation . . ." Leaving her last sentence unfinished, she leaned in and tenderly kissed him on the cheek.