1 - A Call To Arms

The day dawns bright and clear for the cameras in District One, making the District shine as much as the luxuries it exports. The mayor stands at the podium, his address on the history of Panem every bit as enthusiastic as it is every year, and then stands aside, leading the applause as Flavia Honeydell springs to the podium, one hand up to subtly rearrange her elaborate golden wig. "Happy Hunger Games, District One!"

There's an answering roar of applause, which she acknowledges with a flashy smile to the cameras, letting the crowd build up their excitement for a while before signalling for silence. "You've produced a lot of great Victors here. All through the years of the Games, one after the other, lots of wonderful, wonderful tributes, a credit to their District, every one. I'm honoured to stand here in front of you, to be a part of this wonderful, wonderful legacy. So let's see who will carry the torch for One this year, shall we? Ladies first!" Even as she trills it, she's reaching into the ball of names, and the crowd collectively holds its breath as her jewelled fingers close on a slip of paper.

She works the tension, moving slowly and with elegance as she carefully unfolds the paper and holds it up to read it.

"Splendour Argent!"

The cameras pan out into the crowd. Splendour, a fine-boned, dark girl standing among the thirteen-year-olds, has barely stepped forwards when the cry rings out from among the fifteen-year-olds: "I volunteer!"

In the crowd, Nessa Adassi pulls herself up to her full height as she shouts out. She's still dwarfed by most of the other girls around her, but her voice carries, and she smirks slightly as she realises that she's in. She's this year's tribute. Not her rival Lacy, not some little girl who doesn't know what she's doing, but her. Nessa. She can win this. After all, she's seen plenty of Games, plenty of victors who didn't seem to have trained nearly as hard as she will, plenty of victors who were sloppy or lacked planning, plenty who just didn't have her competitive streak.

It occurs to her, briefly, that she shouldn't have volunteered. Not to the Games, not to entertain the Capitol, not after what happened to Ruby. But she doesn't look back as she leaves the crowd and strides up to the stage. Her long, red-blonde hair swishes behind her, her dark green Reaping dress brushing lightly against her bare legs. Petite she might be, but she looks strong and she moves with gymnastic grace.

Onstage, she smiles for the cameras, a cocky smirk which is completely unfaked, and then turns her smile to Flavia, who's asking for her name.

"Giada Adassi," she replies, then, to the camera at the front of the stage, "But my friends call me Nessa. You can call me Nessa."

"Nessa Adassi," Flavia repeats, and flashes her stunning smile at the crowd again, encouragingly. "Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for Nessa, our first tribute!"

Against the backing of thunderous applause, Nessa steps back to stand out of Flavia's way, a little closer to the mentors at the back of the stage. Now that she's up here, standing with her feet together and her hands clasped behind her with the whole of Panem watching, it begins to sink in. She's done it. She's taken the first step to being a Victor, the first step to proving herself to her father and her mother and everyone. The first step, maybe, to exorcising the scars left in her family by the memory of Ruby's bitter end. She might be young for a Career, and she might not have brute strength on her side, but she'll show them.

The hardest part – getting picked – is over now. Her overwhelming feeling is of pride.

She can do this. She knows she can. She's going to win.

As the applause for Giada begins to fade, Flavia dips her slim hand into the other balls of names, plucking out the second name with a graceful, economical gesture. "Shall we see who's joining Nessa in the Capitol?" she asks encouragingly, and gestures to silence the assenting roar. The tension draws out like a thread as she unfolds the paper, takes a moment to read it, and raises her head and her voice to read it out.

"Garnet Awe!"

Almost before the cameras have moved to Garnet – a tall, bony fifteen-year-old – there's another shout, this time from the eighteen-year-old section of the stockade. The voice of this second volunteer is low and rumbling, but loud, and it carries easily to the stage. Flavia smiles from ear to ear, beckoning the male tribute up on stage.

Platinum stands among the other teenagers, but the minute the words leave his mouth, he knows he's not like them any more – he's not just a teenager, but a tribute, and that sets him apart. He glances at his friends Vine and Tiger, one to each side of him. They must be jealous, he thinks; both of them are eighteen, too, and they'll never have the chance he has now – they'll never be glorious Victors. They've missed their chance at the Games... and a good thing, too, because he's a better fighter than either of them and all of them know it.

As he starts up towards the stage, he catches the eye of his best friend, Value, among the seventeen-year-olds. Value gives him a thumbs-up and a smile, which Platinum returns without a word. Value, Platinum muses, will be in this same position next year, mounting the steps onto the stage with the eyes of Panem on him. He hopes that, when that happens, he'll be sitting with the mentors, watching his best friend get the chance he deserves.

But this year, it's Platinum who mounts the steps, passing the mentors and the mayor and nodding to Flavia. He's quiet, thoughtful, and unlike Giada before him, he's hardly even smiling. It isn't that he's unhappy to be here, but he isn't really the smiling type; his green eyes are as flat and expressionless as ever and his broad, tanned face just as unreadable.

"What's your name?" Flavia prompts him, cheerful and excited as ever.

"Platinum Lux." It's coolly spoken, as shielded and unexpressive as his eyes. He stands there a moment, as the applause rises again, then steps back to let the mayor pass. As the mayor steps up to the podium to begin the Treaty of Treason, Platinum's gaze slides sidelong, taking in his District partner. He knows her, but not well; they've shared a couple of training sessions. He towers over her by more than a foot, and where he's strong and bulky she's lithe and petite, but he's seen her gymnastic skills. She'll be a good ally, he thinks – someone quick and agile to counterbalance his brute force. Competitive, too, which will probably make her easy to manipulate into helping him win.

So far, so good. He has a good feeling about this.

The mayor recites the whole of the Treaty in his strong, slightly sing-song voice. Everyone in the audience has heard it before, time and again, but they all listen raptly, while Giada and Platinum stand side-by-side on the stage, sizing each other up. At last, he finishes his reading, turning towards the tributes and gesturing for them to shake hands.

The contrast is clearer than ever as they turn to face each other; the petite gymnast who's so young for a Career, and the great bear of a tribute who's almost too old to go at all; the pale, pretty girl and the tanned boy with the strong features and splayed ears made all the more obvious by his cropped hair; Beauty and the Beast. Giada's hand almost disappears under Platinum's thick, strong fingers, and she smirks up at his steady, expressionless face.

The rapturous applause begins to fade, and, as the anthem strikes up, the cameras take one last look at District One's tributes, taking in every detail; her blue-grey eyes, the birthmark above his ear, the way the light strikes off her pale skin, the light rustling of his smart tuxedo in the breeze. Then, as the anthem fades out and the tributes are led offstage towards the station, the cameras turn to the crowd, panning across the teenagers in the stockade, taking in their mixed relief and envy.

And then District One is gone, and the crowd on Panem's screens are a different crowd, in a different District. The weather in Two is colder and wetter, the light less bright, but the excitement and tension in the air no less strong. The crowd waits impatiently through the mayor's scripted speech, then erupts as Kassian Trove, the Escort, steps up to the front of the stage with a dazzling smile that outshines even Flavia's. "Welcome, welcome one and all, to the 54th Reaping of District Two! Happy Hunger Games, ladies and gentlemen!" He lowers his voice a little, sounding truly sincere, and still smiling from ear to ear. District Two is probably the strongest District in Panem, and a hotly contested place for Escorts to be stationed. "You have no idea how proud it makes me to stand here with you, to have the honour – no, the pleasure – of being your Escort for this year. The odds must be in my favour. May they be in yours, too, this Reaping."

He moves to the girl's Reaping ball, rolling up his sequined sleeve with a dramatic flourish before he dips his perfectly-manicured hand into the sea of names and digging around for a moment before he plucks out the folded paper.

"Oriana Corrin!"

Oriana looks up from her position among the fifteen-year-olds, excitement and fear mingling on her square face, and starts towards the stage with her short bob of blonde hair bouncing around her cheeks. She hasn't yet left the stockade, though, when a hand shoots up and a voice cries out "I volunteer!"

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Brooke has been looking for her opportunity for years, the chance to get out, to get away, to be something great. She can prove herself, make her mother proud. Most of all, she can leave Two behind. Winning won't be easy – she isn't naive enough to think that – but she knows it's worth it, not only to bring honour to her District, keep up the strong victory tradition of Two, but also because nobody touches a Victor. Being victorious puts you above other people, puts you in a position of power.

He won't dare touch her if she wins.

Her ribs twinge slightly under her sequined black top, where the bruising mars her ivory-pale skin, as she fills her lungs to shout, her hand rising into the air to draw attention to herself. She has to get in first – in a District like Two, it's easy to miss your chance to volunteer. So she shouts loud and as quickly as she can, and when she stalks up onto the stage, it's with relief as much as smugness.

The ache in her ribs doesn't show from the outside. She's well-used to hiding pain, and she holds herself tall, although it stretches her sore side. Her chin is lifted, her dark brown ponytail swishing from side to side as she steps up to the podium, smiling a thin, humourless smile.

"What's your name?" Kassian prompts, as her cold eyes take in his fussy, sequined suit, his curly orange hair, his rings and bracelets. She judges him in a split second: Shallow. Stupid. Weak, primping idiot. But what do you expect from the Capitol?

"Brooke Tideson," is all she says, though, with a little nod, and shows her teeth in a slightly wider, more unnerving smile. It might not look it, but it's a genuine smile. She's finally here, honoured with the weight of her District's name, ready to prove herself, ready for all her training to come to a head. She's proud, she's relieved, and she's, yes, more than a little smug.

She's finally breaking free.

Kassian leads the applause as Brooke takes her place on the stage, and he lets it run its course for a moment before, conscious of the need to stay roughly on schedule, he stops clapping, and without waiting for the crowd's applause to fade away as well, digs deep into the ball of boys' names.

The thunderous, energetic applause drops off almost immediately as he pulls out a name, and the crowd hold their collective breath, poised to hear whose name will be read.

"Junius Clem—" Kassian begins, but he isn't allowed to finish. A tall, muscular boy is already shoving his way forwards through the other seventeen-year-olds, shouting: "No! Me! I volunteer! I volunteer!"

It isn't how it's supposed to be done. You're supposed to wait until the Reaped tribute is introduced, given a chance to accept their role, until the cameras have at least taken in who it might have been. But Avius already missed out once, last year, to an older boy who died in the first four days of the Games. He's not going to miss his chance again, and he'll do better than last year's tribute, he knows it. That tribute was soft, let himself care about his alliance, let his guard down so he was taken completely by surprise when he got a knife in the back. Avius isn't like that. Avius is a winner, and he knows it. He's tough, hard, not just willing to kill but able to take pleasure in it; the best tribute Two could ask for.

There's a moment, after he shouts, when he's afraid that he's missed it, that he'll be ignored because he called out too soon. That scares him far more than the prospect of the Games ever could, and for a moment, he almost regrets volunteering so soon. But then Kassian signals assent, just a little nod as he calls Avius up on stage, and Avius doesn't hesitate for even a split second.

He runs, not even caring whether it makes him seem over-eager. He is over-eager, more excited than he's ever been in his life, and he lopes up onto the podium and shakes Kassian's hand, grinning from ear to ear. Even his piercing blue eyes, usually sharp and steady, glitter with excitement.

"I'm Avius Bronze," he says, before he's even asked, and flashes a smile to the camera nearest the stage. It's genuine, but all the creepier for it, a sharp white gash in his pointed features which looks more manic than it does happy. The scar above his eye picks up his right eyebrow slightly, making him look even harsher. He looks unstable, dangerous, the kind of person who graduated from pulling wings off flies a long time ago.

It's perfect. He's perfect for this. He knows it, and the District, who've watched him bully and torture his way through the last seventeen years, know it too. Few of them like him, but all of them applaud him; it washes over him like water, leaving him untouched, because he's not in this for the acclaim. He's in this for the fun.

Kassian takes his seat, and the mayor steps forwards to read the Treaty of Treason. He's a dignified man, with a greying beard and a deep, rolling voice, and his reading of the Treaty has a pleasing resonance to it. Unlike in District One, though, the crowd's attention isn't even partially on him; they're watching their tributes, two more fine examples of the soldiers Two is so proficient in producing.

They look far less mismatched than the two tributes from One. Like Giada and Platinum, there's a significant height difference, but besides that they're remarkably similar. Both hold themself taut and tall, with pride in their faces. Both are fit, with strong, muscular arms and an ease of movement which comes from long training. Most pervasively, though, although they're actually very dissimilar – he blonde, thin-faced and lithe, she dark-haired, rounder-faced, prettier – they look very much alike. It's the eyes. Their eyes are almost the same; cold blue gimlets which seem almost inhumanly unsympathetic.

Those eyes meet as the mayor finishes his reading and gestures for them to shake hands. The handshake takes longer than most, and there seems to be a kind of contest going on between them, both tributes squeezing the other's hand tightly enough that it has to hurt, gauging the other's reaction.

It's a test. Everything here is a test. Rule one: be aware of your surroundings.

The anthem strikes up as they finally let each other's hands go, each left with crescent-shaped marks from the other's nails, and face forwards. Again, the cameras zoom, taking them in, and again, the scene then shifts to the crowd, the disappointed ones and the excited ones and the rather angry-looking Junius Clemens still in the stockade.

For District Two, the Games have begun. And Panem is watching.