"Why do we follow leaders who never lead?

Why does it take catastrophe to start a revolution?

If we're so free, tell me why

Someone tell me why

So many people bleed."

Mirabelle McMaster, 38, Wife of the Master of Ceremonies

He has ruined everything. The silent stranger, the ghost who glides through her room as soundlessly as a shadow, has thrown a wrench into her plan. She has not met with her group—Linnet, Rima and the others—ever since Pericles assigned this new nightmare to patrol her rooms and see her every need met and ensure that she never leaves unless Pericles knows about it.

He has not spoken a word, which Mirabelle doesn't mind so much, except that back home, her servants were her friends. They were her family when her parents were too busy to even think about her. And she hasn't thought about Home in years, because she's forced herself to think of the Capitol as her home. But this phantom is bringing up ghosts from her past that she does not want to see.

Just before leaving, Pericles told her that he would be on television, commentating the Reaping Recap, and if she knew what was good for her, she'd watch it.

So watch it she does, because her husband's words wreak of unspoken threats, and Mirabelle cannot get in trouble, not when she's so close she can taste the freedom on the tip of her tongue.

Now it's just her. And the shadow.

He moves constantly, straightening curtains and dusting surfaces, as though he is always looking for imperfections. He never sits still, and as long as Mirabelle has been awake—and that's often, with the nightmares visiting—the boy has not slept.

And he is a boy—young, pale and lithe, his whole life ahead of him. He reminds her of Jess, her old ally who stood by her until the end, right up to the moment when... when it was just her. Alone on a barren battlefield. Such a solitary, melancholy victory.

"Do you want to sit?" she asks.

He shakes his head, a tiny movement, the only sign that there is a soul inside that shell of a person. She takes a seat herself on the chaise she has used so often ever since her Victory. Those events blur together now: marriage, Victory, engagement, leaving. Where does it begin and where does it end? Mirabelle doesn't know.

There he is, her husband in all his glory—if one can call it that. He's onscreen, reporting as the camera cuts to various Districts. The Reaping will begin soon, plucking twenty-four unwitting children. Soon they'll be here, in the Capitol, and she'll have to mentor them, fill the impossible role of telling them how to win a death match.

But she can get around that. If she can find some way to outwit her pesky bodyguard... who disappeared at some point but is now coming back into her quarters with a tray of cookies. Mirabelle doesn't touch them. They might be poison, and Mirabelle isn't about to die anytime soon, not when the world has let her live and languish this long.

It is strange and visceral, to see these Reapings captured upon the screen. District One comes quickly, and the first Tribute in this Games is Reaped. She walks up with her hands in tiny fists, head down, and when she turns to the crowd, her face is tearstreaked.

The male Tribute for One, however, Volunteers. Mirabelle expects this, as the trend of Careers has only grown since her time in the Arena years ago. The boy is tall, big and burly, and looks to be about the President's age—eighteen, Mirabelle guesses. He introduces himself as Marquis Kennedy, his voice loud and deep and a big smile on his face, which isn't fake in the slightest from what Mirabelle can tell. He shakes the hand of the One girl with a vigorous enthusiasm, and Mirabelle gets the impression immediately that Marquis is an entertainer, which she finds slightly paradoxical, given that he is probably going to be killing children soon. But she supposes that he may not know that.

District Two is next. Similar to One, the girl is Reaped, and hurries onstage with a frantic kind of energy. The boy, Tremor Atilius, is Reaped as well, and he looks anything but joyful. His expression is a blank slate, and she can discern nothing from his cool demeanor. He looks to be eighteen as well, walking up to the stage with head held high. His features are smooth and chiseled, his eyes a soft dark brown and his figure relatively muscular. Mirabelle finds herself drawn in by his eyes, wondering what's beneath his unassuming exterior.

She chances a glance at the guard whose name she still does not know. He is standing stock-still, turned toward the television.

"Have you never seen it before?" she asks quietly.

He flinches, an uncharacteristic sign of emotion, and seems to break from his trance, sweeping the tray of untouched cookies away. And that's another thing; in all his time here, Mirabelle has never seen this man eat or drink.

District Three comes in next. Mirabelle tunes out her husband's flowery words about each Tribute and watches instead as a younger girl, dubbed Arcadia Wilson by the Escort, comes onstage. She looks maybe sixteen, and Mirabelle's heart twists as she watches the girl approach the stage. She looks normal, above all else, just a skinny girl with pale complexion, blonde hair in a ponytail and blue-green eyes that look studiously calm. Mirabelle hears a few people gasp from the crowd, but the girl does not cry, simply looks out at the audience with relaxed interest. Mirabelle admires Arcadia for keeping a brave face—she sees a little of her younger self in the girl, despite the fact that she was much older at the time of her Games.

District Four comes next, and before the Escort can even finish saying the Reaped Tribute's name, a girl volunteers. "Naya Illumina," she introduces herself with a calm, lilting voice.

Naya looks trained and prepared for this, not a strand of hair out of place; she looks like a perfect, polished Career, save for the slight limp in her stride as she makes her way to the stage. Her dark brown eyes are calm and her expression is confident, almost determined.

The District Four male turns out to be a Volunteer as well, and he calls out the same phrase that Naya Illumina did, with an equal amount of authority. He strolls up to the stage with a relaxed arrogance, almost a triumphant expression on his face, and Mirabelle is shocked to see naked surprise cross Naya's features, her hands clenched by her sides before she exhales and her composure returns. Caldwell himself is handsome enough—though Mirabelle wouldn't be a very good judge—although his grayish hair is speckled with sand. When the two Tributes are told to shake hands, they both back away from each other like magnets repelling and firmly shake their heads. They obviously know each other.

District Five is next, and Mirabelle watches as Columbia Novella is Reaped. The girl is tall, and she carries herself like a queen. Her eyes are hard granite gray, and her skin is nicely tanned. There are some reactions from the crowd, but Columbia keeps calm.

The next Tribute Volunteers as well, and Mirabelle marvels at how many young teenagers are so willing to throw themselves into these vicious Games. She supposes they don't know better, have no idea what they're getting into, just as she did. The boy introduces himself as Callisto Novella, and looking at their jet black hair and gray eyes, Mirabelle assumes that they're twins, though their bearings are slightly different. Callisto seems to be putting on a brave face, almost imitating his sister of his straight back, but Mirabelle notices his hands fidgeting. Columbia looks disdainful as she shakes her brother's hand.

Mirabelle's heart sinks as they move on to the slummy District Six. The first Tribute Reaped is young, almost a child, perhaps thirteen. The young teen introduces themself as Dria Isatis, and Mirabelle watches as several people in the audience lean toward the stage, looking anxious. Dria looks thin and underfed, and their shocked expression does not help matters. The male Tribute for the district Volunteers, though he doesn't call out as most other Tributes have. He looks muscular and well-trained, especially next to Dria, and as he walks up to the stage, his expression is stoic and emotionless. It stays this way even as he waves to the crowd. When the Escort asks his name, he uses sign language to introduce himself. Mirabelle doesn't know sign language, but the Escort smiles and nods.

"I present to you our Tributes of District Six: Dria Isatis and Blade Cassidy."

When they are invited to shake hands, Dria seems frozen solid to their spot, and doesn't make a move to do so. Mirabelle feels sympathetic for this stunned child, knowing that more horrors will await them at the Capitol.

Mirabelle exhales. Watching these Reapings make her feel anxious, exposed, the association with her own Games and the other Tributes too much for her to handle. If she has to watch the entirety of this Games... well, Mirabelle doesn't know if she can handle it. Serpentine shame curls around her chest just thinking about that, how there are some things Mirabelle McMaster cannot bear, and she finds herself unable to breathe for a moment, thinking about how powerless she is, how she really hasn't changed so much from that scared young woman standing on the docks of a new country, marrying a man ten years her senior.

She doesn't notice him approach, so eerily silent is he, until he's right next to her, offering a handkerchief. He does not meet her eyes. She realizes there are tears on her face and she takes the cloth, quickly wiping them away. She hasn't cried in years. "Thank you," she murmurs.

He doesn't say a word. And somehow, Mirabelle's thankful for that.

...

Signet Graymore, 18, President of Panem

Death came for Signet's father far too early.

The servants woke him up in the most silent of hours at night, but he was already half awake, sleepless as always. He never was a very sound sleeper. They told him that he should come quickly—? father was fading.

And at that time, Signet didn't know what they were talking about. He followed them mutely, confused that anyone other than him was conscious in these hours that he had thought were so sacred to only him. It was the night before the Reaping, and he had already filmed his Panem-wide announcement. His father still had a few weeks to live.

When he arrived at his father's private wing, his little sisters were already standing by his bedside. They were in tears. Signet felt like he was moving through sand, or a current determined to push him the other way, knock him off his feet.

The doctor spoke in hushed tones. He said that Alabaster Graymore would be dead within the hour. And Signet was on his knees before he realized he'd fallen.

"I can't do this on my own," he'd whispered to nobody.

He just wasn't enough, wasn't old enough, strong enough, good enough. He'd never even watched the Games, never done anything notable.

"It's alright, son." His father's voice was a frail, half-formed thing, a crumbling ruin of what had once been. "You'll have people to help you; Ava, Chalet, Pericles. But Signet."

His eyes were desperate, clinging to the last dregs of life. "Signet, you have to make sure that you see the whole truth. Don't walk blind. Watch the Games. Do you understand?"

No, he didn't understand.

And he still doesn't, sitting alone in his quarters, watching the Reaping and feeling numb, knowing distantly that his father would not be calling him down to dinner, would not be tutoring him on how to run the country. Not that he was very present in the first place, but his absence is stark and suffocating.

He wanted him to watch the Games. And so he does; sits in his parlor and stares blankly at the television while the Reaping unfurls before his eyes. Some of those kids are his age, and they look more confident and composed than he. To be fair though, their fathers probably didn't die just hours before.

He cringes at the sound of his own voice, his own face displayed for the nation to see, and watches in wonder at the plethora of Tributes being chosen for this game. They all react slightly differently. At many points during these Reapings, Signet's mind has fuzzed to blankness, and he has not been able to think, or move, just floating somewhere far away from what is happening in his own life. But right now he is lucid, grounded, if only for this moment—in the past hours, Signet has found that he goes through ups and downs, his thoughts like ocean waves breaking and receding. His grief feels gradual and cold, like ice cream melting.

When he comes back out of the darkness, the television shows District Seven, the square framed with trees and the sun dappling down over the large crowd, their voices murmuring into a swell of sound. The noise of the crowd dies, to be replaced by the voice of Pericles McMaster.

"here we are at District Seven, more than halfway through our Tributes at this point. It looks as if Miss Wren Camphor is a bit shocked..."

Signet tunes him out; he'd always felt that the reporter pointed out the obvious far too much for his liking. Not that he should be thinking about that right now, with all that is happening.

Signet forces his mind to focus on something else, however, because he can't face that thought right now, the prospect of doing this all by himself. Young Wren's name is just now being called, and Signet can hear her audible gasp echoing in the silence. There's a brief pause, a murmur or two tangling in the otherwise quiet square before she begins making her way to the stage with a defiant bounce to her step. She looks young, maybe fifteen, with pale-pale skin and sloppily short strawberry blonde hair, but her smile is there, if a bit shaky. He thinks idly that she reminds Signet of himself, trying to pretend at knowledge and confidence when he really has none. Especially now...

No. He's not thinking about that. He has to watch the Games as his father requested, get a read on all the Tributes around his age that he will soon be meeting. So he focuses on the drab District Eight, where a Capitol Escort looks sorely out of place with their rainbow hair and jingly jewelry. "Felicia Rae Simmons!" the escort calls out with some fanfare.

A very pretty girl walks up to the stage, batting her lashes and twirling her hair along the way, her face split in an airy smile. She, at least, seems overjoyed to be up there, which is more than Signet can say about how he feels right now. The boy from Eight is young, probably twelve at the oldest, and Signet feels strangely nervous for the boy as he stumbles tearstreaked to the stage.

District Nine is next, and Signet only knows it as Linnet Llamora's old home—but then, he's never even left the Capitol, so he knows most Districts only by their names. The place looks tranquil enough, and Signet feels himself exhale in calm as he sees the rolling fields stretching seemingly into infinity, before the camera zooms in on the gathered people.

"Welcome, District Nine, to the Reapings for the 16th annual Hunger Games!" says the Escort. "Our female tribute is... Luz Contreras."

A dark-skinned girl, maybe fifteen, with warm brown eyes and long black hair, steps forward. She looks unsteady on her feet, but her expression is neutral. Signet thinks that if he had to be up in front of all those people, he'd just crumble like dust—but then, he hasn't yet, has he?

"Asa Trevino!"

When the Escort calls Asa's name, it is as if someone has flipped a switch inside Luz, because she panics. Her chest moves in quick breaths and her face slides into one of absolute desolation; it's the face that Signet imagines he'll see in the mirror from now on. But why is she so sad, when this is allegedly a celebration, a game?

A boy about her age hurries forward as his name is called and Luz unravels onstage. He is lean with curly hair and a strong jaw, and his hazel eyes are bright even as he looks shocked and horrified. He sprints to Luz and pulls her into an embrace, clutching her as if she is a lifeline in a stormy sea, and she leans into him. Signet feels as if he's intruding on something beautiful, something intimate, like when his mother was alive all those years ago, and her and Alabaster were so close.

Does he count as an orphan if he is now technically an adult? He certainly feels like one.

District Ten comes next, and Signet feels sadness wash over him as he loses sight of Asa and Luz, who seem so connected, so close. But he knows that's silly—he doesn't even know them, and yet they remind him of what could've been.

"Jacqueline Baylor!" the Escort practically sings the name, and an older girl begins crying, tears tracing down her cheeks.

Signet touches his own face where it's still stiff from all the dried-up tears, and he wonders again what she's so sad about. She doesn't move for a moment, before the Peacekeepers surge forward and she begins walking to the stage before they can touch her. She is tan, with soulful eyes, and she wipes her tears away quickly, her expression now impenetrable as stone.

"Buck Taurean!" the Escort calls, and Signet picks out a muscular boy, also tanned and on the older side. Signet notices immediately the scar cutting through his eyebrow and his eyes being two different colors; one brown, and one blue. Signet immediately likes him, and he can't really say why. As he approaches the front of the square, his shoulders are firmly back and his expression is sealed off and unreadable.

Signet takes a break at that point to walk a little on his private balcony, pulling open the glass doors and breathing in the cool, crisp air. He realizes again that he's all alone, and not only that, an entire nation depends on him. His sisters depend on him. He can't do this, he can't do this, he can't-

Deep breath. In and out. He tries to get himself together, but he's not, he's a mess, and he doesn't deserve to be in this position, this country deserves to have a better leader.

But here he is. He just has to suck it up and deal, but that's so hard, it's so difficult. And he knows he's being whiny and stupid, as he always has been, but there's nothing he can do to change it no matter how much he wants to. So he picks himself up and walks back into his parlor and tries to focus, tries not to let his thoughts slip away beneath his grip.

He's back in time to see the last Tribute, a solemn-looking boy who sulks to the stage, taking the place of the previously Reaped boy. His gray eyes are determined, but he looks malnourished and sallow, if Signet's being honest. With that, the Reaping ends and Signet sags into his chair.

There is an ominous feeling about these Reapings; he can almost taste the bitter foreboding on his tongue, seeing the devastation of certain Tributes and the steely hunger of others, and he just isn't sure why. But he has to go on, even if he feels like Atlas holding up the sky on his shoulders, because somebody has to. And that somebody just happens to be him.

...

3k? Yeah, I did say it was gonna be a lil long, and if I'm being honest this will be the length of all the Pregames chapters, if not longer, though I hope I didn't bore you! As a recap, Mirabelle is slightly angry, Signet is just very sad because the old President just died which we don't really care about but he sure does! And our cast is just pretty awesome! We're getting back to our mini intros next chapter with goodbyes part one, and I'm excited about introducing the other half of the cast, all of whom have been showcased a little bit in this chapter. Four more intro chapters, and then we're on to pregames! Thanks to Jon Larson the very cool Broadway musical composer for those lovely lyrics you saw at the beginning of the chapter, and for everyone else for just being cool and nice and supportive, and also for sharing thoughts about this cast which I'm very obsessed with! Reviews really are lovely, but just any way that you wanna tell me your thoughts is great if you have the time! And now that I've talked for way too long about nothing, I'll see you Friday with some sad kids!

Much love,

Miri