It was not uncommon for victors to misbehave. Bend the rules. Push the envelope. Over the years, a handful of them refused to submit themselves to their Capitol overlord's every whim and wish. It always ended in disaster; a list of names was whispered across untraceable phone lines. Families were found dead from gas leaks, home invasions, out-of-control fires.
The cause was never the same. The message always was.
Brandon Barlow was the first.
From the moment that he ascended the stage at the Reaping for the Third Annual Hunger Games, he stuck out. His bouncy, auburn locks and crystal-blue eyes glinted with a self-assurance that didn't match his grumpy, irritable expression. He had freckles splashed across his face, and a crooked, twice-broken nose – a detail that was not left unacknowledged by the Capitol media as they excitedly discussed the crop of recruits for the latest death match.
He was big, he was handsome, and he was more than a little rough-around-the-edges.
The district escort clapped her hands together in glee. The designated mentor looked hopeful.
Brandon simply folded his arms and stared out at the crowd.
The people looked up at the newest sacrifice, as they did every year, with a quiet respect.
District 9 has always been a reserved, rustic place. Its people are hardy and self-reliant – of course, that is almost a pre-requisite there. Not many are built to survive the exhaustive and demanding harvest season in one of Panem's largest districts. The men and women of the grain district do not take pride in boastful heroism. To shout one's exploits and achievements from the rooftops earned you a pair of rolled eyes and a bad reputation. No, their strength came from a healthy dose of hard work and tradition. If you wanted to get by, you kept your head down, didn't talk back to anyone above your station, and you followed the rules.
Brandon embodied some of these qualities.
His father, Buckton Barlow, had lost his wife, Emmerly, to a stray landmine at the start of the civil war. His siblings had housed rebels fleeing from other districts and faced the noose for their kindness. Both his parents had died years ago – at no great loss – and it was now his responsibility to raise his boys to be upright, reputable men. And it had been tough. He had to be both father and mother, but he met a block in emulating his wife's empathetic nature and her way with words. Buck was not a smart man, never had been. Even as a child, he struggled at school. He told his slurring, boozed-up daddy that it wasn't his fault, that the teacher's words were topsy-turvy and out of order and he didn't understand them. It didn't matter. He still got beat within an inch of his life. The pain always faded. It was the shame that did not.
He had raised his sons in a houseful of men, with the combined testosterone of himself, his children, brother-in-law, and nephews. They were all cooped up in a tiny flat, three-to-a-bed for the little ones and a single bed for his in-law. Buckton slept on the floor. Besides the coarse language and empty threats, arguments were miraculously sparse. If a hand was ever raised to Brandon or any of his three brothers, it was deserved and never done out of anger, hatred, or impatience. Their tendency to conceal their feelings kept affectionate words out of their mouths, but the men cared for one another deeply. It was a fraternity… of sorts.
Brandon was the boldest of them. He liked beer that could knock you out in one punch, pretty girls with ribbons in their hair, and nail-biting dart matches in his local pub. He didn't like the anger behind fighting but found he enjoyed the thrill and adrenaline that accompanied it. As such, he spent his free time challenging older, burlier men to arm wrestles and boxing matches – partly for kicks, and partly so that he could watch the tavern wenches fawn over his bulging biceps, developed from almost a decade of hoisting ten-kilogram sacks of wheat over his head. Brandon could not help but indulge himself the attention. He was nothing like his old man in this way, and the more he thought about it, the less of a problem it seemed.
It also happened to suit the narrative that the Capitol had spun up for him.
The Hunger Games had proved immensely popular as an event, both politically and culturally. The districts had accepted that the Games were not going to go away. However, the more easily offended Capitolites did not feel that they had gotten their money's worth. A single ticket for a decent seat in the amphitheater cost hundreds of denares, and for what? A twenty-minute showcase of a raving butcher? A piss-poor display of a shivering gardener with a shield lucking his way into the top spot? It was laughable. They wouldn't support it.
Something had to be done. After a day and a half of being confined to a squat, filthy jail cell and abused by guards and spectators, most of the tributes' motivation fizzled out halfway through the match. Their lack of knowledge with and inability to utilize the provided weapons – especially those from urban districts – was evident.
Additionally, the viewing public had already grown tired of the classical stadium approach for two years running. The Games Committee realized that the arena had to be spiced up. They needed to truly test the tributes, and ensure that the person that emerged victorious was a competent fighter.
Hells, that didn't even matter once they knew how to put on a damn show.
How best could they prepare the tributes, while staying true to the spirit and politics of the Games?
It was a young, ambitious Gamemaker by the name of Vespasian Lilt that suggested training.
The reaction at the round table was one of shock. "Arm them? Outside the arena?"
Lilt nodded. "Under strict surveillance and with security, of course. Half of the districts use potential weapons on a regular basis. Why don't they attack with them? Peacekeepers. We get a few men in white in there, there'll be no problems. Use your heads."
His closest rival folded her arms. "And who is going to teach them?"
"Specialists. Veterans. Experts. We'll pay them handsomely. It'll level out the playing field. For industry tributes, the ones that fish and cut wood and grain, they've already got an advantage. Show a Twelvie how to knife-fight, now, that would be a twist. Think about it."
The room sprung to life with murmurs of renewed interest. They were cut suddenly short.
"No way. The DERCs would go crazy. There'd be riots in the streets," someone said.
Lilt considered this. The District Exclusionary Radical Capitolists (or DERCs, as they were known) had been a serious pain in the neck for the Gamemakers from the beginning.
In the eyes of the DERC, the Hunger Games had been a soft option and rewarded, not reprimanded, the districts for their treason and infinite war crimes. In turn, they boycotted and protested the Games from the moment of their creation. The organization comprised of adults from varying ages and Capitol classes whose families had suffered extreme casualties during the Dark Days. They were under-educated and unemployed, with little to no understanding of the intricate political and sociological meaning behind the Games – at least, not in the way the government did. Their actions were driven by impulse, and a vengeance that had resulted in bouts of petty violence. Several had been arrested throughout the years.
"I see your point," said Lilt. "But is that really our problem? I trust the competence of our trained and noble police force far more than the hollow threats of a small minority. Don't you?" He allowed this to sink in for a moment. Nobody wanted to criticize the law enforcement. "The DERC have, what, eighty members? A hundred, max? Hardly an army."
There were still other concerns, besides the reaction of the Capitol public. Would the tributes attack the trainers? What if they panicked and tried to do a runner before the Games?
Every aspect of the training programme concept was debated hotly and extensively. In the end, Head Gamemaker Tarquinius Bottleby had to make a last-minute executive decision.
"We go ahead with Lilt's proposal," he said. "Don't look so excited, Vespasian. It's a trial run. And if it fails, you'll be on arena clean-up from then until eternity. Do you understand?"
The young man nodded, his cheeks burning as he tried to ignore the loud titters of his peers.
Lilt was put in charge of everything. It was no laughing matter – his job and reputation were on the line. He increased the security budget, built an extension to the tribute's accommodation, and hired Capitol and district experts in combat, weaponry and gymnastics. A mixture of citizenry would humanize the tributes to them, Lilt correctly predicted.
That summer, the tributes were led into an arena filled with an array of thick boulders; its ground not sandy but covered in tall, scruffy grass. The audience were intrigued. How would this impact the competition? They were also pleased to see that, for the first time, the tributes weren't half-dazed, self-pitying children. There were no tears. None of them begged to be let go. A number of them were poised to leap into the fray, their gaze fixed on the plentiful supplies.
The gunshot blasted and the Games began.
Unbeknownst to the tributes, the Gamemakers had not just altered the landscape that year. The dry, entangling foliage hid a swarm of Capitol-invented mutations that had not found use in the war. A saber-toothed hare ravaged a little girl that mistook it for a harmless rodent. Carnivorous beetles enveloped and consumed the shrieking boy from the coal district. A pair of wild dogs dragged another howling tribute behind a rock and dug their fangs into his neck.
Brandon ran for the cornucopia of goods, a juggernaut, too large and clumsy to not trip on unseen roots and mounds of earth. He pulled up short in front of a coiled garter snake. It was instantly recognizable. The reptile was common to District 9. They were more irritating than they were dangerous, snapping at your heels or hiding in bed sheets during the wintertime.
This one was different.
It uncoiled itself and flicked its forked tongue, watchful. After a moment, the snake drew back its mouth to reveal a pair of razor-sharp fangs. Acidic saliva dripped from its jaws. The snake's pupils dilated. It let out a high-pitched hiss and leapt up, the force propelling it toward Brandon's face. It soared through the air as the audience watched with bated breath.
He caught it mid-air, and with a brutal crack, broke the mutt's neck.
The crowd went wild.
Brandon tossed the serpent aside as if it had been a toy and strode up to the ample pile of weapons. He rifled through it, unperturbed, and snatched up a sickle with a cruel curve. The cocky smile that crossed Brandon's face proved that he had found what he was looking for.
After an hour, it came down to the most gladiatorial finale that the Capitol had witnessed thus far. Brandon had his sickle and the surly, giant of a boy from District 7 wielded a double-sided ax. Each of them had a close-range weapon, ideal for causing pain and drawing blood, and better yet, they both knew how to use them. The mood within the stadium was electric.
It was a short, gruesome fight. For a few minutes, both appeared to be on the same footing, dealing and dodging death blows in equal measure. Then, the lumberjack upped the ante, moving in, step by step, increasing the pace of his attacks. He forced Brandon backward until he was pressed up against a large, black boulder. The stench of sweat and blood was pungent.
District 7 swung his ax. Brandon ducked.
The metal lodged itself into the boulder's rocky surface.
He didn't have time to pull it free, or even panic. The sickle slashed his throat open.
Brandon fell to his knees.
The trumpets blared, cannons sounded, confetti fell, and a disembodied voice from somewhere in the stands announced him as the victor of The Third Annual Hunger Games.
Before he left the Capitol, Brandon received an invitation for afternoon tea with Tigellinus Thorn.
"I don't visit District 9 as much as I'd like to, you know," the president told him earnestly.
Brandon's heart was hammering. He didn't know why. "That's a shame, sir."
"It is. Charming little place, really." He took a sip of his tea. "Needs more sugar." He took a spoonful and stirred it in, his expression mild and contented.
There was a momentary silence.
"Actually." Brandon's throat felt dry. He licked his lips. "I was wondering if I could ask a favor."
Thorn considered this. "A favor."
"As a victor," said Brandon quickly.
For a second, he thought that the president was going to strike him. Then, before he could register it, the moment had passed, and Thorn resumed his cheerful, schoolboy's grin.
"Please. Elaborate." He flounced his hand encouragingly.
Brandon sat up a bit straighter. "I'd like to request more rations for District 9. We're getting by, and meet our quotas, but barely. There's never enough food in the summer. Oil is impossible to come by in the winter. I know my people. They want to work. But they can't."
President Thorn nodded sagely. "That is a problem."
"Just… a little extra. It would go a long way."
Thorn smiled. "I shall look into it for you, Mr. Barlow. I promise."
The details of Brandon's meeting with the President are no secret. The common folk always suspected. For years afterward, numerous versions of the story were whispered in the corners of brothels and pubs. The victor that broke the first cardinal rule of his district – don't challenge someone above your station. He was a fool, some say. Others believe him a hero.
In the districts, they say that no good deed goes unpunished.
Brandon felt the excruciating truth of this statement.
He returned home to find that, for all his good intentions, he had been tricked.
"They announced it right before your train came in," his Pa said stiffly.
President Thorn had kept his promise. Formerly private landowners had been evicted, their acres taken from them for the purpose of increased crop growth. Homes had been torn down in order to accommodate the construction that had already begun on brand new processing plants. All of this was done in the name of the newly established tesserae system.
It applied to all the districts. Adults had no access to the life-saving provisions. Only children that met the criteria for reaping eligibility could claim a year's worth of oil and grain. This, of course, came at a price. The more you took, the more your name was added to the reaping.
"The Capitol and the victors continue to work together in prosperity," Thorn had told the country, the look in his eyes as malicious and gleeful as anyone could remember seeing it.
In the city, Brandon Barlow's popularity never waned. His rural colloquialisms and southern district drawl enchanted its cosmopolitan masses. Deep down, he despised every last one of them. He hated their garish fashions, the dysphoric trends that led to beads and feathers in every orifice. He was repulsed by how easily they could laugh and point as children were hunted and chased and gutted onscreen, their bones picked clean by rats and birds and snakes.
On the other hand, Brandon found an escape in the lights and drugs and sex that the Capitol laid out for him. It meant that he could forget the burning hatred in the eyes of the tesserae farmers as they stumbled back from a fourteen-hour shift. He didn't have to think about the rail-thin, sunburned girls that had to drag their rations home in rusted, broken wheelbarrows. He could block out the screams of little boys calling for their mama from the reaping stage, all because of an additional slip of paper. A slip of paper that was only there because of him.
Brandon didn't marry. He never had kids. He spent his most of his life in the bottle, a high-functioning alcoholic, sobering up just enough to mentor the next pen of sacrificial lambs. Brandon tried his best, he really did. But the sad, hard-hitting fact was, they almost always ran and hid and died. Brandon had to watch them suffer until a mutt or natural disaster or Career put them down.
Katniss and Peeta made a visit to District 9 for their Victory Tour. It had not been as patriotic as they had hoped. There had been three-fingered salutes, commotion in the crowd, arrests. The harvesters and plant workers pushed and shoved to the front of the stage, hoping to catch a sign – a hint – of rebellion from her. She was the girl with the berries. Their new hope.
A year later, the district burned. Its people had been crushed under the Capitol's heel for too long. They no longer took pride in their labor. The many granaries, barns, silos and factories were razed to the ground. The Justice Building officials were smoked out, the entire structure infiltrated and reclaimed by the rebels. Nightlock flags fluttered in the cool evening breeze.
A mob marched to the Hall of Tesserae, their pitchforks and torches held aloft. They tore it down and set it alight. The timber collapsed in a dazzling shower of sparks. The mob whooped and hollered and stamped their feet as the building was reduced to rubble.
Suddenly, gunfire rang out as the reinforcement Peacekeepers exploded onto the scene. Men, women and children fell in a hail of bullets. But more kept coming, pushing forward, pressuring the armed forces and not giving them a chance to reload their firearms. By the end, bodies littered the ground, white uniforms and district citizenry both.
There was a haunting silence, broken only by the sound of crackling cinders and distant mockingjay song.
Beneath the ruins of the desecrated building, an old man lay dead on the ground. He clutched a sickle to his chest, the ghost of his last laugh lingering in the winter air.