Chapter 2: Plotting Quell Strategy
Two months since returning home from the Victory Tour, and the snow has still not let up. Only some of the largest drifts have begun to melt, on that rare day when the temperatures become more balmy. It is as though the weather is trying to make up its mind about committing to spring, but the snow keeps clutching it like a jealous lover. I expect we won't see the winter break at last until we are well into April, a couple weeks before my birthday. I don't dwell on it - District 12's winters have always been unusually long. It's just that this winter seems to tighten the icy noose I have felt around my heart since the end of last summer.
It's a dreary, overcast morning in the Victors' Village, and I am just sitting down to a light breakfast with Mother and Prim. March's refusal to have winter go out like a lamb has extended to school - Prim has been studying hard for her midterms. Next year, she will be beginning Upper School. Thank goodness that, as Victors, Peeta and I are no longer required to attend. Though Mother clearly still disapproves that I have gone along with halting my education, she has done nothing to stop me from dropping out.
"Which exam do you have next, darling?" Mother makes light conversation with her youngest.
"Hunger Games History," Prim reports, her eyes not straying from the textbook open next to her plate. "The course has been really hard this year, Mama - the entire syllabus had to be rewritten to incorporate Katniss and Peeta's win into the curriculum."
I frown in absolute revulsion. The topic is mercifully interrupted by a zealous knock at the door.
"I'll get it." I excuse myself, and answer it. I am more than a little surprised to find Haymitch on our front porch, particularly this early in the morning. What's more, he appears admirably sober.
"Morning, Sweetheart. You mind popping over to my place for a bit? The Boy's there already, and baking. It's urgent."
My lingering scowl over Prim's midterm softens slightly into something more bemused. "OK..." Turning, I holler from the foyer, "Mother, I'm going across the street to Haymitch's! I won't be long!"
"All right, dear," Mother answers back absently.
Throwing on my hunting jacket and boots, I follow Haymitch across the street to his mansion. The biting cold is ever so brief before it is countered by the door opening, and warmth and the aroma of fresh bread envelops my senses in a soothing hug. Traipsing into the kitchen, Haymitch and I find Peeta bent busily over our mentor's stove, lifting a hot tray out of the oven.
"Hey, you two!" He brightens upon turning, quickly moving to deposit the tray onto Haymitch's kitchen table. "Good morning, Katniss."
"Hi," I chirp. My heart swells as I inhale the heavenly scent of cheese buns - my favorite. Before I have time to second-guess myself, I mash Peeta's face in my hands and pull him to me, giving him a quick and firm peck on the lips. When we break apart, Peeta looks taken aback, but pleasantly thrilled too, even as my face burns red with self-conscious embarrassment. I know at the outset of the Victory Tour, we had made amends and agreed to start over as friends, but... sometimes, sometimes when I see him, I forget. It felt so natural kissing him on the Tour that even after it ended... I have found that I don't want to stop. My heart clenches and I inwardly squirm. Why must I feel everything so acutely? And why must those feelings be so complicated, especially for this boy before me? Haymitch is glancing curiously between the two of us, his expression one of deep amusement.
"So... who wants some bread?"
Peeta smirks. "Nice, Haymitch. Always thinking with your stomach." But he borrows one of Haymitch's knives and slices the cheese buns. We all take seats around the table piled high with empty beer bottles, which Haymitch clears to the floor with one sweep of his hand. He doesn't seem bothered by the sound of some of them shattering, which I wince at.
"What's with the pow-wow, old man?" I crack.
Haymitch glowers at me, though it is half-hearted. "We need to start planning strategies for the Quarter Quell."
Ah, yes. This year is the year of the 75th Hunger Games, or 3rd Quarter Quell. Every twenty-five years, a special edition of the Hunger Games, known as a Quarter Quell, is held in Panem. The purpose of these Games, if I am remembering correctly from my lessons in Hunger Games History, is to quiet rebellion in the districts and remind us of our failures to overthrow the Capitol decades before. To that end, each Quarter Quell features a unique twist. What a time to be a first-year mentor! Suddenly, Peeta's cheese buns don't look very appetizing.
"Now, really, I am going into this as blindly as you two: I've never had a partner to mentor with, much less two," Haymitch is saying.
"What about Lucy Gray Baird?" Peeta asks. I glance at him. "Don't you remember in school? District 12's first Victor, who won the 10th Games?"
Haymitch shook his head. "She had disappeared long before I was Reaped, kid. A Capitol liaison was sent to mentor in those days."
Again with the disappearances. The early Victors really had it good. Then again, maybe they didn't.
"Anyway, like I said, I am flying blind here too: the last time there was a Quell, I was a tribute, not a mentor. But we do know that the Reading of the Card will be announced any day now..."
"Wait, what's the Reading of the Card?" I want to know.
"It's a tradition in which the President announces the Quell twist," Haymitch explains.
Peeta gets to the point faster than either of us. "Let me guess: part of this strategy meeting is to guess what the twist might be."
Pulling out a new bottle of liquor and uncorking it, Haymitch nods gravely. "Exactly. And time is of the essence, cause the announcement of mandatory programming could come any day now."
Peeta lounges back in his chair, lips pursed in thought. After a brief silence, he finally slaps the table. "OK. I think I know where we can start. Let's look at the previous two Quell twists. What were they?"
He shifts his gaze to me, and I just shrug. "Don't ask me. I barely passed Hunger Games History." The most I do remember is that our teacher devoted an entire unit to the Quarter Quells, with special attention on the Second, as that was the year District 12's very own Haymitch Abernathy won the Crown.
Peeta doesn't seem at all bothered by this, and immediately begins reciting from our lectures from memory. "On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the districts that it was their choice to initiate violence, each district was made to hold a special election, and vote on the tributes who would represent it."
I wonder what that would have been like. Picking the kids who had to go. It is worse, I think, to be betrayed to the arena by your own neighbors than by the whims of the Reaping Ball. Then again, that twist might have been risky, giving the district citizenry, rather than the Capitol and its escort, that much power over who went in and who didn't. Who lived and who died. Nevertheless, I cannot hide my horror that Peeta would be able to recite something so rotely. Part of the reason I nearly flunked Hunger Games History is because I despised the course content so much. My disdain must be evident on my face, for Peeta just shrugs.
"What? I got an A in the course."
"And... good for you," Haymitch cuts him off. "Most that I remember from that year was, when I studied it in school, the districts interpreted the twist as an opportunity to send in undesirables... with a little bit of nudging from Capitol propaganda."
"How awful," I scoff, only wincing too late as I recall how our Victors' mansions may very well be bugged. "Who won?"
"Cora Shutter, District 8. Folks still call her by her nickname - the Angel of Death. Personally killed ten tributes - second highest kill count for a single tribute ever recorded."
I nearly turn green. Whatever the true record is for kills in the arena, I never want to know.
"That's interesting," Peeta seizes on a thread. "Both of the previous Quells were won by outlier districts. Outsiders. In other words, the Career districts have yet to rack up a Quell win."
Haymitch nods slowly. "And they'll be gunning hard to put themselves on the board this year, no matter what the twist is."
"And then, of course, we come to your year, old man," Peeta cracks. Haymitch frowns hard at the term of endearment, but lets the moment pass. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen, the districts were required to send twice as many tributes."
I imagine facing a field of 47 instead of 23. I almost certainly would never have come out alive under those odds... but the man beside me did. I find myself studying Haymitch with a mixture of both awe and new respect.
"What was it like?" I blurt out.
Even though I say it softly, it is absolutely the wrong question to ask. Haymitch is now intensely studying the beer bottle in his grasp, the amber liquid distorting his sad and pained eyes in its reflection. "Pure hell," is all he replies, with unusual honesty and vulnerability.
Peeta leans forward, and I almost want to beg him to leave it alone, but I hold my tongue. "Did you see anything in there? Anything extra wild about the arena?" At Haymitch's look, the blonde boy shrugs. "Yours and Cora Shutter's are the only Quells we have. And since they're extra special Games editions, we might pick up something valuable about how they work."
There is a long pause before Haymitch answers. "My arena was nearly covered in poison. Four days in, a snow capped mountain erupted into a raging volcano, melting a quarter of the field. Carnivorous squirrels... butterflies with agonizing stingers..." He physically, visibly shudders.
Peeta now appears shaken himself. "So you're saying the Gamemakers rely more heavily on the arena and its environment to pick off tributes?"
"That is a trend," Haymitch rumbles. "Though I wouldn't get married to that assessment. Cora's year, more tributes went down in close quarter combat than by the dangers of nature. Plus, I had twice the competition that needed to be killed off quickly in relatively the same amount of time as a normal Games."
I can understand that. Last year, it took a solid two and a half weeks for the field to come down to just Peeta and me. Without dangers posed by the arena, a Hunger Games worth two fields would have surely taken forever to whittle down. It makes me wonder just how long Haymitch was in there, but he doesn't offer it up, and I know better than to ask.
Peeta's face is once again creased in thought. "I have an idea: Effie! Haymitch, you said discs of all past Games are housed in the National Library. If I wrote Effie, could we rent them? The two Quells?"
Pure terror now graces Haymitch's face, and I want to smack my district partner for his insensitivity. Instead, I jump in by expressing delicately, "Haymitch, you would not have to watch if you don't want to. But... if we could rent the Quells from Effie, do Peeta and I have permission to watch them?" My mentor knows what I'm really asking: Do we have permission to watch yours?
After a prolonged beat, Haymitch nods. "On one condition."
"Name it," Peeta blinks.
"When you watch mine... don't go telling me. Do it on your own time."
"Done," Peeta and I both chorus.
I find my brain wheeling back over the previous two twists. Special election... twice as many... I start with a realization. "I think I've found a clue as to what the twist might be."
Haymitch and Peeta lean forward eagerly. "How?" Peeta asks. "It would be almost impossible to guess."
"What do both Quell twists have in common?" I ask. At the men's stumped silence, I float, "Both twists had something to do with the Reaping. The Reaping in each was altered - whether by how it was conducted, or who and how many were chosen."
"For someone who supposedly squeaked by in the class, you sure are amazing, Katniss," Peeta speaks with unabashed admiration. I feel myself flush fuschia. "But what does that tell us?"
"A whole hell of a lot, actually," Haymitch knocks back a slug from his liquor. "Somehow, the rules of the Reaping could once again be tampered with. The age range could shift. A... tribute could be Reaped, but then be forced to select his or her district partner. The possibilities are endless, really."
Just imagining either of those twists makes me sick to my stomach, and I find myself glancing at the wall clock. Afternoon already. "Prim should be getting out of school."
"Maybe we could all use a walk to clear our heads," Peeta stands, clearing away the cutting board. "Want us to walk down to the school with you and pick her up?"
Before I can answer, I hear my name being called outside. "Katniss! Katniss!"
We three Victors emerge from Haymitch's house to see my little sister barreling up the path, cheeks flushed, blonde pigtails bouncing behind her.
"You're back already? Did you run all the way here?" I cross to the center fountain and catch her in a hug.
"Teacher let us out a few minutes early!" Prim is chittering to me excitedly. "There's mandatory programming tonight!"
Peeta, Haymitch and I all look at each other grimly. "Here we go..." the drunk mutters.
"It could be about Cinna's designs for my wedding dress," I try to deflect weakly, but even I don't believe it as I turn pale.
Haymitch shoots me a look of sympathy. "The Capitol has all the time in the world to plan you lovebirds' wedding. Besides, the Reading of the Card is traditionally held sometime in March."
"But... but the Quell isn't for another four months," I whimper.
Haymitch just shrugs and tips his bottle up with a practiced flick of the head.
I must be close to tears, for Peeta mumbles something about baking more cheese buns and bringing it over to my place.
An hour later, we all find ourselves seated in my living room without any discussion, as Mother fiddles with the fancy remote for our new flatscreen TV. Back before I won, we had a battered old set with antenna perched on a dresser up against the wall of our measly kitchen. Peeta has to help my mother with how to work our widescreen, and the seal of Panem appears, followed by an imposing image of President Snow behind a podium.
"Greetings, Panem! This is the 75th year of the Hunger Games. In the charter of the Games, it was decreed that every 25 years, there would be a Quarter Quell, to remind the districts of the dangers of rebelling and to ensure that war would never happen again." The President then proceeds to recite the two previous Quell twists. No one looks at Haymitch when the Second is mentioned, as if afraid he'll devolve into a drunken rage if we so much as glance at him. From the most that I can tell, he is gripping the armrest of our couch unusually tightly as Snow drones on.
"And now we honor our Third Quarter Quell." A small pageboy steps forward with a box full of envelopes. Snow carefully plucks one labeled with a 75. Opening the flap and removing a card, he doesn't even pause as he reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the districts that their fathers and grandfathers unwisely chose to fight, the tributes will be selected from any age 19 or older."
Mother brings a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp. Peeta sways a little on the couch where he's nestled between me and Prim. My eyes go wide in disgust. Any age. 19 or older. The only comfort I can find is that per the twist, Prim is ineligible this year. And so is Peeta's middle brother, who is only 18; he'll be able to ride through what would normally be his last Reaping in absolute peace and safety. I think his name is Rye.
But then I glance at my mother, at the far end of the couch. Haymitch damn near called it earlier this evening, about the Reaping age shifting. But instead of making the range consistent with the usual seven years (say, aged 19 to 25), the President left the high limit open-ended. My mother could very well be picked. Either of Peeta's parents. Even his eldest brother, who I'm fairly certain already aged out the year before last, is now back in the running.
My stomach roils. Gale. Gale should have aged out only last year. And since Snow knows about my best friend and I kissing that day in the woods, I see no reason why the President wouldn't find some way to fix it so my "cousin" is sent in to die.
No, the twist didn't say anything such as "The tributes will be Reaped from the existing pool of Victors' family members" or something even more explicit (thank goodness!) But that doesn't mean that Snow couldn't or wouldn't try to punish me or even Peeta with this twist... provided, of course, that loved ones of ours are age eligible.
Seated next to Mother, Haymitch is already starting to drink heavily. Peeta is resting his head on his knees. "What a rotten twist," the Baker's son moans.
"Nothing we can do about it now," Haymitch slurs. "We just have to wait for the Reaping... and hope the odds are in our favor."
It might be pessimistic of me, but I doubt very much that the odds will be in our favor. They probably won't be for a very long time.