Chapter One

July 4th looked set to be a fine day in the Capitol, sunny and warm, the sky blue with a few fluffy white clouds. But the weather was the last thing on President Ravinstill's mind right now, for today was the day. The day the first reaping ceremonies would take place. In recent days, camera crews had been dispatched to the districts to film each reaping as it happened and transmit the pictures live across Panem. He'd already introduced Casca Highbottom (the creator of the Games) and Volumnia Gaul (the woman who would be acting as Head Gamemaker) to the nation; now all he had to do was make the speech that would kick things off.

He sat behind his desk as he had done two months earlier when he announced the inception of the Hunger Games to the nation, the Capitol flag providing a backdrop. In front of him, a camera crew were busy doing a few last-minute checks, making sure everything was in order before the president went live.

"Three . . . two . . . one. You're on the air."

One of the camera crew counted down and, as the Capitol anthem "Gem Of Panem" played, Ravinstill looked straight into the camera in front of him. "Today marks an important day in our nation's history," he said in a sombre voice. "It is the day twenty-four young district citizens will be selected to take part in the First Hunger Games. It is the day we of the Capitol re-assert our authority over the districts and remind them that defiance has its price. And in this case, the price of defiance will be the lives of all but one of those whose names will shortly be drawn. I will now read a short passage from the Treaty of Treason." And he did exactly that, concentrating on the section of the Treaty related to the Hunger Games, explaining how they were not just a means of punishing the districts, but also a war reparation. The war had cost countless lives in both the Capitol and the districts, but it was the districts that had started it and therefore their people were the ones who should be made to pay.

Ravinstill finished his speech and the broadcast cut to the main square in District 12. As the easternmost district in Panem now that District 13 had been nuked into oblivion, 12 would be the first to select its tributes which meant one of its citizens would shortly become the first person to be reaped in the history of the Hunger Games.


Gaunt men, women and children gathered in a bleak square, their gaze focused on the temporary stage which had been set up in front of them. Everyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen stood in roped-off pens, with boys on one side and girls on the other, while the rest of District 12's population were assembled around the edges. Many of the adults looked as though they had attempted to wash away the layers of coal dust they picked up in the mines, but hadn't quite succeeded, their skin still bearing a greyish tinge. Not that you could get away from coal dust here; the stuff was everywhere, forming a grimy layer over everything.

On the stage, several Peacekeepers stood to attention, their white uniforms standing out starkly against the drab greyness of their surroundings, watching as a squat man stepped up and stood between the two burlap sacks that had been placed on the stage. Mayor Lipp, who had been running District 12 since just before the Dark Days of the rebellion and was described as "that corrupt bastard" behind his back, not that anyone dared call him that to his face unless they wanted to be "rewarded" with a whipping or a session in the stocks. He had even been known to have people executed after, at best, a summary trial, so he had few qualms about what he was about to do. Condemn two kids to death.

Without saying a word, he plunged his hand into the sack on his left and groped around inside before extracting a single slip of paper. Walking over to the microphone that had been set up in the centre of the stage, he unfolded the paper, cleared his throat and announced to the assembled crowd: "The District 12 girl tribute is Morag Blythe."

In the midst of the girls behind the ropes, Morag Blythe felt her face turn white as Mayor Lipp read out her name. This was what she had been dreading from the moment the Games were announced, on television initially, then via a proclamation posted in all the districts for the benefit of those who'd missed President Ravinstill's address. Her name being drawn at the ceremony to choose those who would have to participate in this sadistic game. Why her? She was no fighter; she'd had no part in the rebellion apart from helping the local apothecary to treat wounded rebels. And now she was going to have to go to the Capitol and fight to the death against twenty-three other kids. It wasn't fair. Why did it have to be her whose name was drawn?

Tears pricked at her eyes and she wanted more than anything to break down, to cling desperately to her best friend, Eloise Diggs, and bury her face in her shoulder. But she knew that wasn't an option for her; the instructions for the reaping had clearly stated that, if your name was called, you had to step forward and take your place on the stage. There was no choice in the matter, unless you wanted the Peacekeepers to drag you to the stage by force. So, after quickly embracing Eloise, she stepped out of the crowd and began to make her way down the passage separating the boys and the girls. All eyes were on her, a scrawny fifteen-year-old girl dressed in a threadbare maroon dress, a rope tied round her waist as a makeshift belt as she walked towards the stage, dreading each step.

Morag mounted the stage and stood facing the crowd, trying without success to pick out her family. Her parents and two younger brothers, neither of whom was old enough to be reaped. She knew they were there, but she couldn't make any of them out and the fact that tears were blurring her vision didn't help. However, she didn't have long to think about it before Mayor Lipp moved towards the sack on his right and drew the name of District 12's boy tribute, which he announced to be Shaft Dawkins.

A boy, also fifteen years old, emerged from behind the ropes and began walking towards the stage, following the path Morag had taken moments before. Like Morag, Shaft had dark hair and grey eyes, and wore clothes that looked as though they had seen better days. His shirt, once white, was now a dirty grey and his trousers were wearing through at the knees. He moved with stoic dignity, not wanting to let anyone know how afraid he was, how his heart was pounding in his chest in anticipation of what was to come. A battle to the death against twenty-three other kids in which only one of the combatants would get out alive, and the chances of him being that one were slim to say the least. Still, if he was going to die, the last thing he wanted his friends and family to remember him as was a cringing coward who broke down in front of everyone and pleaded for his life. So he kept his face expressionless as he mounted the stage and Mayor Lipp directed him and Morag to shake hands.

The moment they had shaken hands, Morag and Shaft touched the first three fingers of their left hands to their lips, then raised them in the direction of the crowd. A traditional gesture of farewell in District 12.


Heddle watched as Mayor Hayes drew the name of District 8's female tribute, Georgette Kendall, who began to slowly make her way to the stage, limping heavily as she did so. She'd been born with a weakness in her left leg that meant it hadn't developed properly, leaving her walking in a strange lop-sided fashion. And walking fast, never mind running, was beyond her; if she tried, her leg would give way and she'd end up in a heap on the ground. But that had made no difference to the Capitol. All district citizens who were between twelve and eighteen years old had been included in the reaping, without exception. Even those who, like Georgette, had a physical disability that would put them at a clear disadvantage in a fight to the death.

"Hurry up, girl!" Head Peacekeeper Webb shouted from the stage. "We haven't got all day!"

His words made Georgette put on a burst of speed, even though she would clearly rather be heading in any direction but towards the makeshift stage. Watching her from the throng of District 8 boys behind the ropes, Heddle hoped her leg wouldn't give way, but just as she reached the steps leading up to the stage, she fell to the ground as the limb in question buckled underneath her. She tried to pull herself up a few times, but Webb was eventually forced to order one of the other Peacekeepers to go and help her which that Peacekeeper did, much to his obvious annoyance. As Georgette was helped onto the stage and propped up by the Peacekeeper, a mutter went up from the crowd.

"What a shame. Her and her bad leg."

"Forcing someone like that to fight."

"Yes, you'd think even the Capitol would show a little compassion."

Mayor Hayes ignored the muttering and moved to the sack containing the boys' names, reaching in and pulling out a slip which he then unfolded. "The District 8 boy tribute is Heddle Starkey," he announced into the microphone.

Hearing his name called, Heddle swore under his breath. He'd spent the last two months hoping this wouldn't happen, that some other boy, preferably someone he didn't know, would be chosen as District 8's first male tribute. Instead, Mayor Hayes had drawn one of the slips containing his name, meaning he would have to step up and take his place in the Games. To make matters worse, his nineteenth birthday was only a few weeks away and now it looked like he wouldn't see it, unless he could outlive the other twenty-three tributes, including Georgette. Had he been born on July 3rd like his childhood friend, Tucker Hargreaves, he would have already turned nineteen and be safe. But, because he was still eighteen, he'd ended up behind the ropes and now he'd had the misfortune of having his name pulled from the sack. And that meant he had to walk up and join Georgette on the stage.

Steeling himself, Heddle shook hands with the three boys nearest to him. Arran, Rickrack and Corduroy, old friends of him and Tucker. The five of them had been hanging out together since they were little, but all that could be about to end. Heddle, who'd always been the one who kept their little gang united, had been chosen as a tribute and that meant they might never see him alive again, though he tried not to think of that. As he let go of Corduroy's hand, he looked his friends in the eye for what would probably be the last time. "It's been great knowing you guys," he told them. "Tucker too. Could you tell him that from me?"

"Course we will," said Rickrack, as Arran and Corduroy nodded to back him up.

And, with that, Heddle stepped out from behind the ropes and began to make his way to the stage.


"The District 6 girl tribute is Caddie Beaufort."

A fourteen-year-old girl with dark blonde hair in braids hugged the girl next to her, then set her face into a determined expression before stepping out from behind the ropes and heading for the stage. As she walked, Caddie could feel everyone's eyes trained on her, watching as she made her way up the passage separating the boys and the girls. Were they remembering her father, Torsen Beaufort, who'd been one of four men executed in this very square for involvement in the rebellion? She recalled how he'd bravely faced the Peacekeepers' guns, how he'd refused to wear a blindfold and stood staring straight ahead, showing no emotion. Just before the Peacekeepers opened fired on him and the other three men, he'd whispered three words. Her mother's name, Mara, followed by that of her twin sister, Pontie, then her own, Caddie.

Now, as she made her way to the stage, she tried to show the same quiet dignity her father had shown. Inside, however, her mind was reeling with thoughts of how afraid she was. She had no desire to die, not yet, not when she had her whole life in front of her. That boy from school she fancied, Ford Nelson. She'd never get to tell him how she felt now, unless she was the one left alive after the Games were over. But she had no choice but to go up and take her place on the stage, so she told herself she was going to be brave about it. No tears, even though she might never see her mother, or Pontie, or anyone else from District 6 apart from her district partner again.

Moments after Caddie had taken her place on the stage and stood facing the crowd, Mayor Donaldson moved towards the sack containing the boys' names, drew out a slip of paper and walked over to the microphone to announce whose name he had drawn. "The District 6 boy tribute is Mercury Neville."

No-one moved. Mayor Donaldson called Mercury's name again, but received no response. After a third attempt also failed to produce the boy who'd been chosen as District 6's male tribute, he nodded towards the Peacekeepers, five of whom descended from the stage and made their way into the midst of the boys behind the ropes, shouting at anyone who might be trying to protect Mercury to give him up immediately, or else . . . To prove they weren't bluffing, all five Peacekeepers pointed their guns into the air and fired them. "That was your last warning!" one of them shouted. "You will turn Mercury Neville over to us, or we will start shooting people until you do! And don't think we're bluffing - because we're not!"

At this, a cluster of sixteen-year-old boys moved aside to reveal a sandy-haired youth standing at the centre of the group, a fierce scowl on his face. The Peacekeeper who'd said he would shoot everyone stepped up to him and stood with his face only inches from the boy's. "Mercury Neville?" he demanded as the boy continued to scowl, making it clear that he was not going to walk up to that stage without a fight.

"That's my name. Wanna make something of it?"

The Peacekeeper did not reply. Instead, he nodded to two of his comrades who seized Mercury by his arms and began to frogmarch him towards the stage, ignoring the string of obscenities which spilled from his mouth.


Nigella fiddled with the fraying hem on her dress, waiting nervously for Mayor Jardine to call the names of District 11's tributes. All around her other kids, most of them dark-skinned like herself though there were a few with lighter skin, were also waiting to hear which of them would have to walk up to the stage and, from there, be taken to the Capitol. And those who were taken would almost certainly not be coming back alive; the rules of the Hunger Games made it clear that only one of those chosen as tributes would be allowed to live. Who would be chosen? She hoped desperately that it wouldn't be her. If she was . . .

Her thoughts were cut off abruptly as Mayor Jardine, a middle-aged woman with an enormous bosom, announced into the microphone: "The District 11 girl tribute is Nigella Atwood."

It took a moment for Nigella to process the fact that her name had been called and a moment longer for her to remember what she was supposed to do. Walk up to the stage. She didn't want to, none of the kids had wanted this, but she had no choice. Tears pricked her eyes as she looked at her friends, Bounty and Ripe, and the three girls, all of whom were thirteen years old, embraced for what would probably be the last time. Then she pulled away from them and, her body visibly tense, began to make her way up the path which led to the stage. As she walked, she wished this was all a bad dream and she could wake up and find herself back in the hut she shared with her parents and older brother, Oregano. But it wasn't a dream; it was reality. Her name had been drawn at the reaping for the First Hunger Games.

And that meant she would probably never see Bounty and Ripe again, nor Oregano unless Mayor Jardine drew his name. But that would mean she and Oregano would be in the Games together, the Games which would end with one or both of them dead. She didn't want to live if Oregano died and she knew he felt the same about her. They might annoy each other sometimes, but they were still brother and sister and they'd always looked out for each other. Unfortunately, family loyalty wouldn't help either of them now.

Nigella mounted the stage and stood facing the crowd, her bottom lip trembling despite her attempts to control it. Mayor Jardine then moved towards the sack containing the boys' names, and Nigella hoped desperately that Oregano wouldn't be chosen. It was bad enough that her parents were probably going to lose one of their children, but to lose both of them . . .

However, she didn't have long to think about it before Mayor Jardine announced that District 11's male tribute was Roots Rigby, and a seventeen-year-old youth with dark skin and a mass of tight black curls on his head emerged from behind the ropes and began to make his way to the stage.


Mayor Selby moved towards the sack which contained the names of every girl in District 3 who was between twelve and eighteen years old, reaching in and pulling out a slip which he unfolded. The moment he saw the name written on the slip, he frowned. Iona Selby. His own daughter. She'd had to sign up for the Games along with everyone else who was eligible, even though she was the daughter of a district mayor, but she'd begged him not to let her be taken to the Capitol, knowing he would indulge her every whim. And, as he looked at her name on the white slip of paper, he knew what he must do: name someone else as District 3's female tribute preferably a known troublemaker, someone whose family had been actively involved in the rebellion.

"The District 3 girl tribute is Fusey Hillman," he announced into the microphone. Fusey was the sixteen-year-old daughter of Gauge and Tina Hillman, who'd been the ringleaders of the rebels in 3. They'd both been killed by Capitol forces during the battle to retake the district from the rebels, but Fusey and her nineteen-year-old sister, Leila, had survived and he suspected that both girls were just as rebellious as their parents had been. However, they hadn't tried anything yet, so he couldn't have them executed. But now . . .

Now, he had the perfect opportunity to get rid of one of them. No-one would ever know he hadn't drawn Fusey's name and, even if they did, there was nothing they could do about it. As the mayor of District 3, he had the backing of the Capitol and that meant he could do pretty much whatever he liked, including rigging the reaping. He watched as Fusey walked towards the stage, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction at the thought of sending the daughter of two top rebels to her death, but just as Fusey was about to mount the stage, a shout went up from the crowd.

"No!"

A young woman who shared Fusey's brown hair ran out from among the crowd and tried to block Fusey's passage as she prepared to step up to the stage. Her older sister, Leila. Three Peacekeepers immediately moved to pull her away, but she made it clear that she was not going to let Fusey be taken without a fight. "This is wrong!" She gestured towards the boys and girls behind the ropes, several of whom were watching open-mouthed. "We should never have surrendered to the Capitol! Look at these kids! How many of them are going to have to die before those bastards who run this country get their revenge?! My sister . . .!" That was as far as she got before the Peacekeepers overpowered her and she was dragged away as Fusey looked on helplessly.

Fusey mounted the stage, feeling a mixture of gratitude that Leila had tried to stand up for her and trepidation at the thought of what lay in store for herself and her sister. Leila was too old for the Games, but that didn't mean she was safe, far from it. Speaking out against the Capitol, especially in the aftermath of the Dark Days, was sure to result in severe punishment. A public whipping at least, but it was more likely given that the Hillmans were known rebels that Leila would be killed for her actions. Which meant that, even if Fusey managed to survive the Games, she would have no family to come home to.

At length, Mayor Selby, having made sure Fusey was being closely guarded by the Peacekeepers to keep her from following her sister's example, moved towards the other sack and drew the name of District 3's boy tribute. A fourteen-year-old named Zack Warner whose short black hair and wire-framed glasses gave him the geeky look typical of the district. He was a skinny kid who looked like he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag, much less survive a fight to the death, but he held his head high as he walked towards the stage, towards almost certain doom.


Anthea held her breath as Mayor Chalmers reached into the sack containing the names of every girl in District 9 who was between twelve and eighteen years old. Four of the slips of paper contained in the sack had her name written on them, meaning there were four chances for her name to be drawn. "Don't let it be me," she whispered to herself as Mayor Chalmers pulled out a slip and walked over to the microphone, where he unfolded the slip and cleared his throat before announcing whose name he had drawn.

"The District 9 girl tribute is Anthea Swanson."

Anthea shook her head in stunned disbelief. A dream. It was all a dream. She'd wake up any second and find herself in her bed, the sheets tangled from where she'd kicked them off. She'd been having nightmares about being reaped ever since the Games were announced, her imagination inventing all sorts of horrors, but she'd always woken up and found that all was well, or as well as things could be in Panem. This time, however . . .

Suddenly, she found herself being seized by two burly Peacekeepers and marched to the stage. As they forced her up the steps and onto the platform, she realised to her horror that this was not a dream; it was reality. One of the slips containing her name really had been drawn, meaning she was a tribute in the First Hunger Games. And that meant she probably only had a few days to live, a few days during which she would be a prisoner of the Capitol. She had no wish to die yet, certainly not under those circumstances, but there was nothing she could do now except hope that, somehow, she would be the last one alive at the end of the Games.

In the meantime, Mayor Chalmers drew a name from the other sack. "The District 9 boy tribute is Malt Swanson," he told the assembled crowd, as Anthea's face turned pale. Malt, her twelve-year-old brother, was a sickly boy, but that hadn't made any difference; he'd still had to register for the Games. And the one entry he'd had in the reaping had just been drawn, meaning he must join her in a fight to the death which both siblings had little chance of winning. In fact, Malt probably wouldn't last five minutes once the Games began, but she could only watch helplessly as a skinny boy in a white shirt and brown trousers emerged from behind the ropes and made his way to the stage.

As Malt mounted the stage, Anthea looked at him apologetically, wishing there was something she could say to him but unable to find the words to express how she felt about the unfairness of the situation into which the Capitol had forced them.