Something is wrong.
I can't quite put my finger on it, but weird things have been happening. For one thing, our broadcasts of the Victory Tour are choppy. We lose feed for no reason, which wouldn't normally be a cause for concern - we've always had sporadic electricity - if it weren't for the fact that the Victory Tour is usually promoted loud and clear. It's a way of making the pain of the Games fresh yet again.
As the tour progresses, it's also becoming clear much of the footage has been edited out. Occasionally, we catch glimpses of a shaky camera, a disturbance in the crowd, before the media skips to a different, more placid shot.
Peeta and Katniss are still playing lovers, of course. Maybe it's just because I know now that it's contrived, but I'm almost sure there's something desperate about the way they kiss and dance. Which is quite frequently, much to our family's discomfort. They attend parties and galas and rallies, the whole time clinging to each other like ivy on a trellis.
The romance doesn't entirely cover up the jagged footage and hasty editing of this year's tour, though.
"What's going on?" I ask one night when the broadcast turns to static almost before Katniss can finish her speech. "What's with the turbulence in the airwaves lately?"
My wife glances at me quickly.
"What?" It's not usual for her to be holding information from me. Usually, she jumps on the opportunity to point out how uninformed I am.
"Well, there's been talk-" she stops, busy picking at a loose thread in the fabric of her shirt. "Lately, in the marketplace, rumors have been flying. About uprisings."
"About what?"
"Rebellions. Uprisings. People are unhappy with -" she lowers her voice, "with the Capitol."
"Haven't we always been?" I can't remember a time when people here weren't angry with the Capitol. I mean, their idea of fun is watching children kill each other.
"It's just rumblings of course, but there's been talk of taking action. Peeta and Katniss - they've given us a reason to fight."
"Us? Fight?" I ask incredulously. "People are mad. The Capitol's too powerful. We'd all be blown to dust before a single shot was fired."
"Well, those same people argue that the Capitol needs us to survive. We stop supplying them…" she shrugs.
The conversation's all wrong. We saw what happened the last time people started thinking like this. "The last time we rebelled, it only brought us the Hunger Games," I remind her.
"The last rebellion failed," she spits back. "This whole thing with the berries is stirring people up. If we can overthrow the Capitol, there won't be any Hunger Games at all."
"So people want to organize something here in Twelve?" The thought fills me with fear. And, why not admit it, some exhilaration too. Could we really be free of the Games? To not fear the reaping year after year? No more killing children for sport.
"I don't think there's anything in the works," my wife says. "It's all talk. Talk, talk, talk. Really, the same stuff that's been going on for years. But I guess Peeta and Katniss have given people a symbol."
"So, do you think it's happening in the other districts too?" I ask. Peeta and Katniss may not be from their district, but their love story might have gotten some people further convinced of the Capitol's satanity.
My wife shrugs. "It explains why they've been so concise with their programs. If they're worried we might band together, they wouldn't be too quick to show us the other districts, would they?"
"I don't know. It seems like a long shot. There could be a perfectly good explanation. There could be tech issues in the Capitol or maybe…" I trail off, unable to come up with anything logical. The Capitol has the best technicians on their hands and their pick of anyone in the districts, particularly three.
"Exactly. You don't have to believe me. I'm just relaying information. You watch next time they air something. Look at the crowds."
The thought of rebellion consumes me for the rest of the day. I used to hear about the Dark Days when I was younger. My parents were either very young or not born yet, but their parents lived through it first hand. Apparently, those days were just as dark as everyone said. Dark enough to earn them the title. It wasn't like the nagging fear of hunger, but the kind of terror that only comes hand and hand with death. Every step outside was equivalent to a funeral march. You lived in fear. Fear of your loved ones dying. Fear for yourself. Is that really what people want to create again? I promise myself to look at the crowd next time I get the chance and hopefully, impossibly, put these suspicions to rest.
Fortunately, it's a very short time before the opportunity presents itself.
District Eight. So unlike our little mining district. Large, industrial factories blot out the skyline. The smoke that chugs from the tops clouds the air and it hangs heavily over the crowd gathered to celebrate the victors.
The cameras are spending an abnormal amount of time showing the backs of people's heads. My son and Katniss come out on stage. A strong, young woman gives a speech in their honor. They respond with words whose meanings have long been stamped out by memorization. The script is listless, the farthest thing from inspiration. If this is what's moving people to want to take action, then I'm really at a loss.
And finally, we get a few short shots of the faces in the crowd. Fury. Passion. Elation. That's what's behind those eyes and written on their faces. Peacekeepers that ring the square seem to be having trouble keeping this crowd contained. They strain forward, each person looking at our victors with such hunger. The kind that can only be satisfied with Capitol blood.
"You were right," I tell my wife. "Did you see their faces?"
My wife looks a little smug. I really should stop doubting her. "The districts are unhappy. People can only be contained for so long before they begin resist. Control doesn't sit well with our species."
"Do you think it'll happen? A revolution?" I ask her quietly.
"Good heavens, I don't know. This could fizzle out within a week."
"But you don't think so."
Her face confirms my fears. "No," she says matter-of-factly. "I think people are powerful, especially when united. If I were the Capitol, I'd think very carefully about their actions. Anything we can use to bring ourselves together, we will. It doesn't have to be much, but one tiny flare and rebellion is ablaze."
"But those speeches," I protest, determined to find one flaw in the theory. "You can't tell me that those speeches were inspiring in any way."
"That's the point, isn't it?" she says, annoyed that I haven't grasped it. "The Capitol doesn't want them to do anything inflammatory. They think maybe, if the speeches are dull, it'll quell the crowd."
"Nothing will quell that," I say. The images of their underlying anger are still fresh in my mind's eye.
People can only be contained for so long. Control doesn't sit well with our species.
So how long will it take for the restraints to burst and the wall of seventy-four years of resentment to come crashing down? Then, a scary thought occurs to me. "If Peeta and Katniss are instigating thoughts of rebellion, they could be in serious danger." Suddenly, I want more than ever for the tour to be over my son safe here in Twelve.
"Only if things progress," my wife says calmly. "Like I said before, it's still just talk. A whisper here, a hint there. It's more of a mood than anything else. Unrest."
"The gateway to revolution," I say aloud to no one in particular. A revolution could be much more dangerous than the Games. It won't just be children dying. The Capitol will want to strike down every rebel they can get their hands on. We know from experience they don't mind bombing entire districts off the face of the planet. The arena will be everywhere if one erupts.
And then, Peeta pops the question and all thoughts of rebellion are shoved unwillingly away.