Kamau grasped the rough roots of the weed, and in a single thrust, removed it from the cracked, dried dirt. Blazing rays of sun penetrated his back, and he felt sticky and sore with heat. He took a moment to wipe his sweaty arm against the coarse leather of his sleeve, and glanced around the massive field. Golden stalks of wheat soared high above his head, and floated carelessly in the wind. They had no cares, no worries. Kamau felt a surge of envy spiral through him. How he wished he could live in a world where he didn't have to worry about anything, where he could live peacefully. Where he could spend time with Rue, oblivious to the cruel dictatorship of Panem's Capital to its twelve outlying districts, the punishment of the Peace-keepers who advised the fields, and the Hunger Games. Just the thought of the Games chilled Kamau's soul with contempt and, although he tried to stay strong for Rue, fear. Not that she needed it. Rue could turn anything into a joke.
Kamau had heard the same story over and over again. After a series of horrific catastrophes destroyed the Ancient World, the country of Panem arose. It consisted of thirteen districts and a ruling Capital, and after a time of peace, the districts began to revolt against their rulers. A full blown war followed, and in the end, the thirteenth district was destroyed, and the other twelve greatly weakened. The victorious Capital regained power, and, in an attempt to remind the remaining districts of their rights as ruler, devised the Hunger Games. Every year, all twelve districts were required to send a male and female tribute no younger than 12 and no older than 18 to fight to the death in the Capital's Hunger Games Arena. The pageant was televised, and the tributes were selected by means of a drawing. Kamau shuddered as he resumed digging up the rough weeds. He knew that, if he were to be drawn from the thousands of slips from his district, he would stand no chance in the Hunger Games Arena. He was athletic enough; eight years of field labor had only made him lean and strong, but Kamau knew nothing of lethal weapons and hand-to-hand combat. Tributes from Districts 1,2, and 4 were trained heavily for the Hunger Games should they be reaped, and Kamau stood no chance against muscular boys and girls who'd spent their lives preparing—and even anticipating—the bloody Hunger Games.
And then there was Rue. Kamau was certain that his world would tear into flimsy shards if Rue was drawn to compete. She was intelligent, he knew, but too caring, too small, to stand even the slightest chance. District 11 was among the poorest of the twelve, its economic source being from agriculture. Despite the ample amounts of crop, the citizens of 11 were given little food. Most of it was shipped over to the luxurious people of the Capital. Kamau ripped the weeds harder every time he thought of it. He was a quiet boy, smoothly handsome, and almost always calm. Yet the thing that iced his heart and soul, that brought forth the buried rage within him, was the Capital. Kamau had watched the televised Hunger Games for as long as he could remember, and he was sickened by the media's endorsement of blood and murder. The Hunger Games ended childhood, ended lives, and turned innately good youth into barbaric murderers. Kamau tried to hate the children that killed mercilessly in the arena, but he knew deep down that he understood them. They had to play the Hunger Games, or die. They weren't the real murderers. The Capital was.