Chapter 1: Another Reaping for Another Games

The pounding on my door is jarring, discordant, against the pleasant dream that is now sucked from my consciousness and into oblivion.

"Miss Everdeen! Get up! You have to be at the Justice Building in 30 minutes!"

Groaning, but not loud enough for the Peacekeepers to hear, I rise from my bed and ready myself for the worst day of my year. The worst day of my life that happens to occur annually. For today is the Reaping for the 88th Annual Hunger Games. Today is the day I will know which two children in my district will be sent into a cage match of almost certain death.

Almost. Although lately, I have tended to drop that adjective and just go with certain.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 30 years old. When I was a teenager - 16, to be precise - I was Reaped as the girl tribute for the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Well, actually, it was my baby sister Primrose who was Reaped. I volunteered to spare her life. Thus, I was sent into a tournament in which 24 children from the 12 Districts of Panem compete in an outdoor arena and fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins, and becomes a Victor, mentoring future tributes for the rest of his/her days.

I won that 74th Games. My hunting partner and best friend, Gale Hawthorne, was my district counterpart that year. Working together and acting as though we were just on another one of our illegal hunts outside Twelve, we worked our way into the Top Three. Facing off against a Career tribute named Cato, Gale sacrificed himself and brought the boy from District 2 down with him so that I could win and live.

Feeling my eyes well up at the traumatic memory, the saltiness mixing with the shower droplets, I turn off my faucet and dry myself, dressing in simple pants and a top. Being the middle of June, this Reaping promises to be like any other in terms of weather: a scorcher. People have fainted from heatstroke during the event before. No sense wearing more than I absolutely have to. I hurry down the stairs and open the door to find a small platoon of white-armored guards waiting for me. I guess I was quick enough. Although I doubt they would have barged in or something if I had taken my own sweet time. This thought makes me wonder if, as a Victor, I have power over these Peacekeepers. I am unsure, and I do not want to press my luck just to find out.

There are six Peacekeepers total, three of which flank me on either side as a sort of escort. Thus, I am marched out of the Victors' Village. Since the dawn of the Games, only three people have lived here, including myself: Duke Vedaldi, a young man who won decades ago, the 13th Games I think? He's also been dead for several decades.

We now pass by one of the empty houses. An abandoned house, really, littered with trash. It still looks as though a bomb went off in it, even though it's been empty for nearly fifteen years. Just beyond this residence is the graveyard containing District 12's failed tributes - all 171 of them. One headstone stands out amongst the rest, however. It is more of a shrine fit for a legend.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Haymitch. Haymitch Abernathy - the paunchy, middle-aged drunk who was my mentor. He won the 50th Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell. Quells are a special edition of the Games held every quarter-century, and contain some sadistic twist. For my master, it was twice as many tributes entering the arena. Then, for the 75th Hunger Games or Third Quarter Quell - the year after I won - former Victors were made to enter the arena again. Haymitch and I were the only Victors who could go in and represent Twelve. The old man withdrew from the alcohol he loved so much, pulling off a Herculean effort just to keep me alive. The stakes were higher than normal; at that time, a rebellion was stirring in Panem, one that I was being blamed for. I always suspected President Coriolanus Snow had rigged the Quell to ensure my participation and my death. But Haymitch, along with several allies we made, outsmarted him. My mentor stayed alive long enough until there were only three of us left, and like Gale before him, sacrificed himself and took the rest of the field with him to ensure my victory.

Winning the arena two times in a row, I fled Snow's wrath. I went underground and agreed to lead the rebellion against the Capitol. The only thing is, it failed. My sister Prim was killed by bombs, and my mother fled to District 4 out of grief. I wanted to die, too, but President Snow spared my life, on the condition I play by the rules of a Victor and serve the Games until I die. Having lost nearly everyone I loved, I had no choice.

And so here I am, conscripted into mentoring tributes for the thirteenth year in a row. All alone. My only comfort is that Haymitch managed to do just that, and for nearly twice as long.

We have now arrived at the Justice Building. I mount the stone steps, taking the stage and allow the Peacekeepers to usher me into a chair next to the District's Mayor. Effie Trinket, our District's escort, takes the stage. Underneath her pink hair and outlandish make-up, she gives me a sympathetic smile. I return it wearily. We've been friends for years; she escorted when I was first Reaped.

Every year, the Ceremony is the same. The Mayor begins the proceedings my reading a scripted monologue about the Dark Days - the first Rebellion - and its squashing that led to the formation of the Hunger Games. Then, he reads the names of past District 12 Victors. As is tradition, all of Twelve conducts a moment of silence for its deceased champions, Duke and Haymitch. When my name is called, there is only a small smattering of applause. Everyone is careful not to clap too enthusiastically, for even after all these years, a show of praise like that could suggest sympathy for the failed Second Rebellion that I led.

Effie now takes the stage: "Welcome! Welcome! The time has come to select one young man and young woman for the honor of representing District Twelve in the 88th Annual Hunger Games! As always: ladies first." She pulls a wisp of paper from the Girls' Reaping Ball. "Alexis Gilmore!"

A shy Seam girl with a mousy but nonetheless pretty face takes the stage. She looks to be about 16. Deep blue eyes and flowing brown hair. Attractive. I can already think of many sponsors who might take a chance on her for her looks alone.

"Wonderful! And now for the boys." Effie turns to the other Reaping Ball and withdraws a name. "John Thuy!"

A mixed-race Merchants' son of probably 18 ascends the platform. His exotic skin tone and muscular build make him handsome - he is probably half-African and half-Asian. Strong. He could make a go to join the Career pack, if he wanted to.

Even today, it fills me with shame how quickly I size my tributes up as though they are cattle to be sold. But at this point, it's habit. Instinct. Even if no one from Twelve has emerged triumphant since me, I have to at least try. I have to mentor them both.

These are mantras I repeat as John and Alexis shake hands and I am escorted with them and Effie to the train:

I have to try. I have to try to get one of them home alive.

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