"The Hunger Games… May the odds be ever in your favor!"
Hah. What a load of crock. Odds? In [i]our[/i] favor? Who're they kidding? Not me, that's for sure. Not Ash, my fellow District Seven tribute, who is standing next to me with a fairly green complexion. Not our families. Not the other tributes. Hell, not even the people in the Capitol, waiting anxiously for us to start offing each other. The odds were certainly not in their favor when they were born to the sadistic, cruel freaks of the Capitol. The goddammed Capitol. Them and their ways of 'keeping peace' with the Districts, their ways of keeping us [i]loyal[/i]. they ain't getting any loyalty from me, that's for sure. The minute they pulled the small white paper out of the lottery ball, the minute the name [i]Mist Hawthorne[/i] was read, I was in a permanent state of rebellion.
I shoot a sideways glance at Ash, who smiles shakily back at me. God he was adorable… It was almost a pity I'd have to kill him. His hair was ash-blonde, his eyes the grey of a rainy day. He was slim and compact, having not really done much to build muscle. We were friends, I guess you could say—well, we hung out in the same crowd, we talked and laughed and played. He was cool. Cooler than others. We planned out the Hunger Games in great detail; we were almost positive we would be chosen for one.
And you know what? We were right. Just weren't expecting to be in the same one. I can tell he's thinking that too, as he turns to face the crowd, refusing to meet my eyes. Refusing to meet anyone's eyes, I notice. Just watching the sunset he loved so much—the oranges and reds, all blended together on the horizon we could barely see though the thick tree line. If anyone could find the splashes of color, it was Ash. Poor thing, he didn't have the heart or the guts to be in this game. We were both seventeen—so close to our last year, so close to being finished with the fear of the games. He seems so much younger in the fading sunlight, so small, so vulnerable. I felt the overwhelming need to shelter him from the horrors of the world, to protect him. But there could only be one victor, and, well, to be perfectly honest, I would fight tooth and nail for the victor to be me.
The Peacekeepers drag us away, none to gentle. Mine was a large, heavy-set guy in his late thirties. "Do you watch the Hunger Games?" I ask innocently, knowing full well he does. Everyone does. "Does it make you feel bad to know you led us to our deaths? Do you go home every day and tell your wife and children you led a tribute to her death?' I pause for a moment, thinking of whether or not I should continue. "Do you tell them you beat a starving kid for stealing food from the storage? [i]Rotten[/i] food?" I can see how the muscle in his jaw twitches, how his iron grip on my arm tightens. "Do you even have a family?"
"I have a wife. Used to have a daughter," he says shortly, through gritted teeth.
"Ahh. Died in the Hunger Games, did she? Oh wait. You're Capitol spawn, you and your family are immune to that. Did you like pain so much you killed her yourself?
I wasn't expecting the slap. Wasn't expecting the sharp, stinging pain, wasn't expecting him to shove me against the wall. He shoves his face into mine; eyes wild. "One of [i]you[/i] killed her," he hisses through gritted teeth. My arm was going to have a bruise tomorrow, the way he's gripping it. He lets go and pushes me into the train that will take me to The Capitol. "I'll enjoy watching you die," he says to me as the doors slide shut.