Chapter Text
Prologue
“How long was I out, Rue?”
“Two days, the girls from 1 and 4 are dead.” Her eyes flit to my face briefly. “And the boy from your district.”
“Peeta,” I say.
“I’m sorry.”
The anthem fades out. I shiver. Peeta is dead. Did Cato kill him? Did he die saving me? Why?
It feels so stupid, but I feel guilty. I feel guilty for killing Peeta, not Glimmer or the girl from 4, who were undoubtedly my kills, whereas Peeta could have died any number of ways.
I turn over in the sleeping bag, so my back is to Rue, and hopefully the cameras too. “Get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“They’re all in a better place now.” Rue says as I drift off to sleep. I know she’s right, and I think to myself that even though that may be, it’s still wrong they died so young.
I should win this. I need to win this now, not just for Prim, but for all the kids from the Seam who’ve gone into an arena and never come out, only because they were too poor to pay for grain and oil.
I owe it to Peeta, who gave me this chance. He gave me sponsors, he probably saved my life.
I will win these games.
One Year Later
Haris is still floundering in the waves. He clings to a log for dear life. I’m his mentor, I need to help him, I think. But I don’t know how. No sponsors are ringing notice on my screen.
“Come on…” I murmur, then slam my hands down on the desk in frustration.
I whirl my chair around to look at the District 4 mentors and see how they’re doing. Damn Careers are probably hogging all my sponsors.
But Mags Flanagan and Finnick Odair are not focused on their screens. Instead, they’re watching the District 6 mentors, whom we call the Morphlings. The two are fully immersed in their tributes. Tribute, I remind myself. The girl’s canon went off a few hours ago. For whatever reason, the hovercraft still hasn’t been able to get in and retrieve her body.
I stand up and wince. I’m all stiff from sitting so long. I stand on my tippy-toes to peer over the male morphling’s shoulder. The little boy is hugging his sister’s corpse and kicking furiously against the water.
Finnick and I lock eyes. “Do you think he knows she’s dead?” I ask.
He nods, “I know that look in his eyes. He’s looking for vengeance.”
A shiver runs through me. “On who?”
Finnick raises an eyebrow to mean Do you really have to ask?
I remember feeling that way before. I remember wanting to destroy the whole of the Capitol. The feeling has lessened, now. We have enough money that Prim will never need to take out tesserae, and I feel hopeful she will never enter the Games. Gale speaks less and less of hating the Capitol, and I’ve been supplying his family with plenty of money (behind his back, of course), so his siblings won’t have to take out tesserae either. Life is sweet.
And no matter what Gale says when we go into the woods, there is no revolution brewing.
No wave is going to rise and conquer the Capitol. The world is staying exactly where it is.
A canon sounds and I turn back around. Haris’ screen has gone black. There are only three tributes left in the Sibling Quell now.
I stay in the Lounge, though I’m technically supposed to leave now that Haris is dead. I watch Finnick and Mags bring their twins towards victory. Then, the girl is attacked while the boy’s head is turned. He doesn’t notice till the little boy from 6 taps him on the leg.
“You killed my sister.”
There is blood on the boy’s hands. He holds a tiny knife, meant for cutting vegetables. I remember it being sent in a sponsor package along with a tomato and a small block of cheese. I wasn’t sure what the Morphlings were thinking when they sent it, but clearly the knife has been useful. The girl’s canon booms.
The Career clearly has no idea what to make of the boy, who stands before him, sopping wet and half his height.
“Just you and me, buddy,” the boy says. Then he lunges. The Career grabs him by the right leg and I hear a snap and a child’s scream that makes me feel like I’m right there, in the Arena.
I shield my eyes. It’s always painful to watch the twelve year olds die. And this one doesn’t even look twelve yet. He’s about the size of an eight year old. I remember him sharing in his interview that he liked magic tricks.
The canon sounds. I peek between my fingers. The boy leans over the corpse of his opponent, face pale.
The little knife is gone. Blood leaks out of one of the body’s eye sockets, now empty.
“Congratulations, Kaz Rietveld,” I hear over the intercom, “Winner of the 75th Hunger Games, the Third Quarter Quell!”
“Damnit,” Finnick mutters, “Kid stole my record.”
Chapter 1
Hermione can’t think. The air is buzzing around her, the worn wooden table vibrating an uneven rhythm. The ground ripples in the rush of a Capitol train.
WhoamIwhoamIwhoamI?
She taps her pen anxiously against the table. A gray wind slowly moves past, ruffling her bushy brown hair.
She stares at the pen, anywhere but the paper in front of her. The shadow is tilting towards the east.
Oh crap! The Reaping. She’s going to be late. Then she’ll be doomed for sure. She’ll be killed— or worse, she won’t get this job.
She hops up from the table, folding the application and shoving it in the pocket of her dress.
Any minute now, the Reaping will start. Where are those god forsaken Peacekeepers to yell and point their guns at her? What if she’s so late that they’re already in the square, and she’s going to walk in only to be arrested?
She crosses an alleyway and sighs in relief. Children are still getting their fingers pricked. She hurries to the table and takes her place in the 16 year olds row.
Ok, now think.
Ideas are flitting by in her head, gears and pulleys working too fast. Her brain is being pulled apart and grinded.
Who are you, Her—
“—mione Granger?”
She looks up. The Capitol escort has a slip of white paper in her hand, and she stands in front of the microphone on stage, beaming out at the audience with a painfully reflective gold smile.
“Hermione Granger?” She repeats, looking around. The girls surrounding Hermione back away, as if she’s contagious. She, meanwhile, stands frozen in shock.
She can’t have been Reaped, she just can’t.
But all the eyes and district 6 are pinned on her.
“Hermione?“ The escort nods to her. Still she doesn’t move.
Suddenly, there are gloved white hands on her arms, and she’s being pulled away from the audience, onto the front step of the reaping stage.
“Move.” A Peacekeeper grows in her ear. His breath makes her win. Then, he shoves her, and she trips forward, letting out a tiny squeal.
Seriously, Hermione? The whole country is watching you! Now is not the time to squeal. She scurries up the rest of the steps and gives the escort a small nod. It’s the only thing she can think of to regain her composure.
The escort reaches into the boys bowl and picks out a slip.
“Nev—”
“I volunteer as tribute!” the attention focuses on a boy in the 17-year-old row.
He makes his way through the crowd, towards the stage. As he gets closer, Hermione is able to recognize him. He’s one of the most impoverished of district 6. She’s seen him regularly in the schoolyard, smoking a joint hijacked from a passing train, drinking a stolen beer, blazing around with his friends, the other dregs of society.
JJ Maybank— that’s his name.
He hopped on stage and cocks eyebrows at the escort.
Of all the kids from our district to be in the hunger games with he’s probably the worst.
Well… Maybe not the worst.
She can feel Kaz Brekker’s eyes boring into her back and forces herself not to turn around. She remembers watching his games four years ago. This was a kid she competed with for the best grades in class, gone to school with for years. His sister was her babysitter a few times.
And then, she watched him— Kaz, the smallest, weakest kid in district 6— brutally murdered two Careers in under five minutes.
He’d stopped coming to school then. Hermione had her spot at the top of the class.
The escort— Hermione really had to learn her name— signals for Hermione and JJ to shake hands.
“I may the odds be EVER in your favor!”
The audience cruelly erupts into cheers. Hermione‘s ears go hot. She’s not popular in her district. In fact, she’s well hated.
They’re cheering to watch her die.