This is one of the shortest chapters I've ever written. It's hard to make these early Hunger Games long because mentors, sponsors and stylists just haven't been invented yet. It's just the victor and their opponents in an arena that's so small, the fighting's over quickly. Never fear! I have something longer planned for the Eleventh Games.
Mars Roscuro, District 2
"Little boy says I'll be in love with my fists
Little boy says I'll be in love with my punches."
Car Seat Headrest, Connect the Dots (The Saga of Frank Sinatra)
Mars Roscuro loved playing with toy soldiers.
He couldn't have been much older than five when his father had left to fight the evil rebel forces in a faraway land. The war ended when Mars was eight but his father still didn't come back. His mother told him that he was still fighting for what was right and bought him a set of toy soldiers.
In reality, Jupiter Roscuro had been killed in the fighting but his wife couldn't explain that to her son. Mars didn't really understand abstract things like death.
As Mars grew up, he wanted to be just like his dad. He fought battles against the other kids in the playground and couldn't understand why he didn't have any friends. The other kids saw him as a bruiser and a bully. The adults wanted him to be reaped for the Hunger Games so he'd die in the place of one of their own kids.
Mars wanted to be in the Hunger Games. It was such a shame, he thought, that they never picked him. If he could just get into the Hunger Games, he could be a real soldier!
It was only when he was fifteen and he watched the reaping recap that he realised he'd been doing it all wrong. All those years waiting for his name to be called when he could have just volunteered like that cool kid from One who speared people. He promised himself he'd volunteer the next year.
He kept his promise.
The few viewers the Eighth Hunger Games could gather were intrigued by the second volunteer in that many years. They all knew about Emerald Kiesler's heart condition. Surely the boy following in his footsteps would have a similar reason to volunteer, a similar secret.
But no, Mars Roscuro just wanted to fight.
The moment he reached the weapons pile and picked up a mace, none of the other tributes stood a chance. The way he smashed other tributes skulls apart was nothing like the viewers had ever seen before. The mysterious volunteer boy was obliterating his competition and smiling.
So far, the deadliest killers of the Hunger Games had worn many faces, from the searing anger of Surf Depthell to the cold indifference of Emerald Kiesler. But never joy.
It was only when Mars had broken the skull of his final opponent - a wispy twelve-year-old from Nine - that his smile dropped.
He'd won at playing soldiers, hadn't he?
So why weren't the other children getting up and giving him a pat on the back for winning? And why was there so much red stuff like strawberry syrup on his hands?
It was only when Mars got home that his mother took him to one side and explained why everyone was giving him funny looks. He was horrified. Had he really made all those people - what was that word again? Dead?
He'd just wanted to play with them...
For the rest of his life, Mars only left the house a handful of times. He was happier indoors with his toy soldiers that got back up every time, even when they lost a battle.
Mars Roscuro loved playing with toy soldiers.
