PROLOGUE THREE: "DARK WAS THE NIGHT, COLD WAS THE GROUND"

TIME: 6:01 AM, 9 June 325HG

A rolling thunderclap shatters the silence, backdropped only by the faint hissing of the chilly mist that winds over the dirty river. That noise is the one piece of inclement weather the Capitol is unable to prevent. Efforts were made around the time of the sixth Quarter Quell to install a massive force field around the Capitol to keep out rain. It only rains at night now, and when the president has a particular reason for stalling people's travel.

Indeed, weather is now mostly a tool for controlling people's mood. Images can be projected on the inside of the transparent dome that show sunny or rainy weather regardless of the actual behavior of the earth's atmosphere. Every month when the time comes for the Day of Fear, it is stormy. Even when fertilization happens in factories and the shortcomings of evolution have been completely eliminated, people fear the storm. It is the deepest human instinct that cannot be shaken.

The five men emerge from the shadows dressed in plain white, lit via the few pencils of sunlight that manage to penetrate the thick cloud cover. They look suspiciously at one another for several moments but quickly congregate. It is a harsh, cold world. They must stick together.

"News?" asks the tallest of the five men.

The others can do nothing but nod morosely. "Old Ismene met her maker last Thursday," one of them murmurs at last. "I thought the old hag would never die."

This is the shadiest part of the city – the part that was never rebuilt after the nuclear war. It is surprising how much government business goes on in the parts of the Capitol one would least expect. It is necessary that this business be conducted in complete secrecy. The walls have ears in Panem, but the trees don't. It is only out here that total secrecy can be truly achieved.

A decrepit shack comes into view. The thin sunlight pelts the window panes, swirling around the charred side of the house that has been completely burned of its bright red paint. The entire side of the building is black except for three places. Here, the silhouette of a man standing with his hands on his hips. There, the outline of a woman with pinned-up hair playing catch with a small girl. Further down, the child's hands are raised to catch a ball that never came down.

A face made of living flesh emerges from the shadows, startling at first. It is hard to imagine a single living creature could survive in this hellish wasteland. He speaks the code word.

"Here for tea?"

There is a moment of silence.

"Sweet, with biscuits," replies the shortest of the five men.

"Seven-thirty?"

"Sharp."

With a nod from the strange harbinger, they enter quietly, shivering in relief to be out of the harsh weather. Even in the total absence of rain it feels as though they are soaking wet. They are thickly laden with the weather. It is impossible to shake.

"Mr. Robinson will meet with you in twelve minutes. Please have a seat."

This house has kept its peace in the centuries since it was destroyed. Yellowed, splintered books sit on a shelf in the far corner, tucked ominously between split cushions lining several previously pristine red couches. Every president who has ever ruled Panem has left their mark in this room – it is, without doubt, a place where dark things happen. A red rose stands on a counter near the window, perfectly pristine after nearly three centuries. A physical manifestation of a time long gone.

Words penetrate the silence though they are no louder than a whisper.

"Quiet guard, Tanaquil?"

"Not a mouse stirring."

"And Clymene. Is she well?"

"Well as wax."

"And the gram?"

"Better than a damn."

"Very funny." Nobody laughs.

At last, it is time for the gamemakers to meet with the president. He is heavily veiled and they are forbidden to call him by his true name. They must call him Mr. Robinson, a joke about a monarch who lived hundreds of years ago.

"Mr. Robinson. It is a pleasure."

"Let's skip the pleasantries. Have a seat, Caius."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Silence.

"Now, I have gathered you here because it is time for the Thinning. That's the name I gave my annual speech years ago. It is a tradition reaching back centuries to the days of President Stinn Hawke, who delivered a long monologue to each victor, gamemaker, and stylist that passed through the Hunger Games. Are you prepared to listen to whatever business I might bring to light over the next half hour?"

"We are, sir."

"And do you swear on pain of death not to reveal what has been spoken here to anybody?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"I'm sure, sirs, you have heard of the riots."

"Yes."

"And the napalm."

"Yes."

"And the assassinations?"

"Sir, we know more than you think."

Utter silence grips the room. The character who spoke that last line, admittedly the dimmest-witted of the five, shrinks back in remorse. The president, though, seems amused rather than offended. He does nothing but smile and pour a glass of sparkling scotch. He lifts the glass and turns it gently in the overhead light.

"Have a drink, Laertes."

"Mr. President?"

"Oh, I insist."

The man – whose name must be Laertes – rests his hand over the glass and comes to pause. For a moment his eyes settle on the bouquet of roses in the window and he purses his lips. There must be a sour taste in his mouth. It seems he is unsure whether or not it is safe to drink the liquid, but he knows in an instant he cannot hesitate. Refuse a gift from the president of Panem? It would be suicide to do that.

He lifts the drink to his lips. He does not die. The conversation continues.

"This is important. This closeness is important. I find it important to meet with my Hunger Games team every year because none of us can ever become too comfortable with the facts of our world. You have heard of the Quell twist, sirs?"

"We know it by heart."

"Good. And you are ready and willing to preside over the deaths of children as young as five?"

"We are."

"If I told you it was necessary to throw napalm in a child's face to further the agenda of the Hunger Games, you would do so."

"Sir, we would."

"I would not ask you to do that, because it does not further the agenda of the games. But if did…"

One of the men gets brave now and slams a hand on the table. "Mr. President. We are your humble servants. Do you doubt that?"

A smile curls over his snakelike face. "No. I am merely testing you."

But now his willpower has broken.

"Mr. President, we haven't eaten in days."

"I know that." He likes seeing his subjects weak. It is necessary. Necessary to keep them from getting ideas. "You'd like a meal, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, please!" Their pupils grow as large as dimes.

"I suppose there's no use dallying any longer. Cleo!"

A tongueless servant enters and places a massive steaming plate on the table. Not an avox – that practice was outlawed years ago. This servant happens to have her tongue surgically stapled to the bottom of her mouth. Once her time of indentured servitude is over, she will be able to speak once more.

"If music be the food of love, play on," the president murmurs as the gamemakers begin to eat. He notices their confusion. "Shakespeare. You are a fan of Shakespeare, aren't you, Feathersmith?"

"Yes, I'll eat anything."

A quiet nod. Then it is time to really get down to business.

"I've called you here because the victor of the 324th Hunger Games has been murdered."

That statement goes off like a nuclear bomb, rattling through the air for ten full seconds before it seems to dissipate. The man named Tanaquil begins to choke on his food, and it falls uselessly out of his mouth.

"But sir – Aurelius…"

"You heard what I said. He has been assassinated. Details are still coming in to me as of this moment, but the undeniable truth is that he is dead. That is as undeniable as anything can be. I have seen his corpse with my own eyes."

"Have you identified the killer, Mr. President?" says the only gamemaker who is not too stunned to speak.

A flick of a hand, the raising of an eyebrow. Actions that can get you killed in the districts, but the president of Panem has the luxury of doing them as much as he wants. "The killer," he says, "is me."

This statement, too, goes off like an atomic blast. The men don't keep quiet. He isn't expecting them to.

"Forgive me, Mr. President. What was the motive?"

Oh, yes, he is clever. There always has to be a motive. They are growing braver. The president realizes this and drops his hand.

"The people are growing restless," he grumbles. "We have seen this in District 8 and District 13, everywhere the riots are burbling up. There's an old book, gentlemen, a very old book that was banned centuries ago. It says that speech is a beautiful language that burbles up from the heart. There is some merit in this, I must admit. What people are saying is a great indicator as to what they are feeling. And my advisors have given me a very particular indicator of goings-on in Panem as we speak. I trust you're ready to hear them.

"Word has rattled around Panem as quickly as a flame sucking up the air in a small space. People can accept the Hunger Games, but they simply cannot accept five-year-old children dying inside them. They can't accept the fact that human life could simply end so early for our entertainment."

Tanaquil's eyes raise in excitement. This is an opportunity to earn brownie points, as his grand-carer used to call them before she was gunned down in the streets for opposing the Capitol.

"Sir, that is a key aspect of the games," he says, beaming. "None are safe from the wrath of the reaping. That, I hope, should be clearer this year than ever."

The president grows contemplative and pensive.

"Yes – and no."

"Sir?"

"The world of the districts does not grow and shrink perfectly to scale. Our nation first saw this the year of the second Quarter Quell, which saw twice the number of tributes for the first time in history. Excitement for the games did not double along with the tribute count. Likewise, people cannot double their excitement because the age range has doubled. People do not like this Quell. They don't like its scope, its size. They are rioting. I trust you can appreciate that."

"We can, Mr. President."

"And the nation needed a reminder. A reminder that all human life is temporary, fleeting. So I ordered Aurelius' death. It is simple logic to me."

"Truly, sir, yours is the iron will."

He has learned long ago not to succumb to flattery and does nothing but gaze in silence.

"There's an old saying, sirs. Out with the old, in with the new. Have you heard it?"

"Yes."

"And do you know what it means?"

"Sometimes the previous state of something must be cleansed in order to initiate progress," booms Laertes proudly.

"That's correct, Laertes. Out with the old, in with the new. I am sorry, I am truly sorry. But I need a clean slate going into this year's Quell. I need a change of scenery."

Anxiety hangs in the air like tension living inside an outstretched rubber band. One sharp word would be like a piece of glass to send the entire scene rebounding into chaos.

Do they speak? Do they dare? At last, someone does.

"Sir – it has been a wonderful meal, and we thank you much for it." These words are spoken as timidly as the whisper of the October wind.

"Cleo!" the president barks. The woman with the stapled tongue enters quietly, reserved. "Show these gentlemen to their rest, please."

Another silence.

"Mr. President?"

"Yes, Marcus?"

"I'm very thirsty."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm thirsty."

"No, you're not."

He screams. He screams twice. He never even reaches the door.

The next morning, the brass band plays the anthem of Panem in a mournful key. From every house in the Capitol comes a solemn weeping as the corpses of the five great men are paraded through the streets. Yes, they were great men. The best. These men came from the stars and the black velocities, the officiant declares. They came from the universe itself – and to the universe they have now returned. Not literally, of course. Nobody believes in the afterlife anymore, not since the government proved life after death was a hoax.

The president makes a little sad speech. Sometimes he looks like a president, sometimes he looks like something else – like a snake.

"This concludes," declares the crier, "Our speech from president Xanthus Snow. These men will forever be missed but will live forever in our hearts, as we were always in theirs."

And then everyone gathers to watch as the coffins are lowered.

"Such a shame, such a shame, lusty young Aurelius and now these five. The fallen six, we should call them. No, the sextet. What a shame. They were all too young."

"Too young, too young." Too young is something these people will just have to get used to. President Snow knew that when he killed them. This is nothing more or less than a lesson in too young. More deaths will follow and soon they will be desensitized completely. That is his hope, anyway. It is remarkable how quickly people are no longer bothered by something that exists all around them. Every person here was made on an assembly line, preserved in thick amber for the nine months gestation fully took. Specifically grown, specifically manufactured, to care about nothing but the Hunger Games and the Capitol.

"It is our duty, now," the president announces, "To ensure that these dead did not die in vain. It is our job to make this year's edition of the Hunger Games the most spectacular the nation has ever seen. Make them proud, Panem. I know you will. Long live the Capitol!"

"Long live the Capitol!"

Truly, they care about nothing but the Capitol, nothing but the Hunger Games. The entire purpose of human life is to see the games. To fight in them is to ascend to a level above humanity. It is to float out of one's body and become nothing less than a god.

The brass band comes to a stop and then marches back into town. Everyone takes the day off.