Reunited: Against the Odds

Prologue

"Jennifer Hart," the voice says, speaking through a radio. The small, dull room is filled with nothing but computers showing different views of a mansion, each a different angle, moved slightly. Solid black rolling chairs with the finest of cushions sit behind each computer. In the corners of the room, also dispersed throughout the desks are crate-like boxes, made of cardboard tougher than normal.   Each written with a fine black marker, they each were the same size, overflowing with papers and pictures. A few of the boxes were well-organized, as if the boxes were currently in the process of being correctly filed. They are all filled with miscellaneous items that no one would think suspicious- if they they didn't each hold the same nine names. Thrown away receipts and crumbled, half-completed checks, even notes that must have blown away in the wind. Articles of clothing, files of information, all inside these boxes. 

The room is silent aside from the woman's voice, the shallow breathing on the other side of the radio, and the static sound of the radio. Eighteen posters line the solid black walls, fine photographs of posed people. Under each lay a tag of sorts, a slip the size of an index card with the corresponding name written with the same fine marker. 

Aside from a woman, the room was empty of other people. Sitting at a cluttered desk, her white-gloved hands nimbly type commands on an onyx-colored keyboard before returning her right hand to a similarly black mouse. There were two screens in front of her, one pulled towards her. A space in the middle, the computer on the left was sectioned into four equally sized squares. Hidden cameras. The right screen had several different programs up, the main one where she typed in lists of numbers and letters. Spreadsheets and files were cascaded, the woman constantly clicking from one to another. Beside the computer on her right were several more documents, sprawled out in what would seem a mess to anyone else, but very well organized in her opinion.

Ten pictures sat in her lap, a once-neat stack that continously jumbled up as she tapped her foot impatiently, awaiting a response on the radio. On the very top sat a newly printed picture starring a young brunette. Looking around the second half of her teen years, the winsome female stood on a large stage, darker streaks running down her hair. A tiara placed upon her head, she donned a jade dress of respectable tightness, not too loose but not hugging her. A sheepish smile was upon her blushing face, a deep red from both happiness and makeup. Angled towards her, a man with brown hair stood a few feet away from her, holding a microphone and a happy expression, white teeth shining as his mouth stood a gape, as if he were laughing when the picture was taken. 

After a few seconds filled only with the sounds of writing from both end, the man respond, his voice smooth and deep. "District Two?" a man returns over the radio. The tone of his voice shows that he already knows the answer, though is in need of verification. Zooming in on one of the screens, the woman picks up the photograph on top and holds it up next to the computer. Comparing the two individuals, she nods her head, putting it on the desk, which quickly gets lost in the pile of papers.

"Yes, District Two," the woman responds, looking into one of the screens. It shows a long limousine pulling up to a mansion. The same girl walks out of the car, fumbling with the keys in her hand, obviously nervous. Pressing a few buttons on a screen, the whirring sound of a printer sounds aloud, and the picture comes out. The woman takes it into her hand, eyeing it. "She has just arrived at the mansion." Writing a date on the picture with the finest of pens, she places it on top of the other picture of Jennifer. 

"Good, good," the male says, his breath now moving steadily. "Now, I assume you have boxes with her information?" Coming and going, occasionally a small breeze would cover up his voice a bit. 

"I'm on it right now," the woman says, her footsteps echoing through the room as she picks up a set of boxes, each stacked onto each other. She pulls out a marker, writing the name "Jennifer Hart" on each of them in large black print. "Affirmative. I'm still in the midst of research. I need more time," she says, then walking over and sitting down at the computer, typing rapidly on the keyboard.

"That poses a small problem.  We need to get on this as soon as possible," he said, his voice slightly firmer. "Send what you have now. How much time do you require?"

"A week, at the most. I could get it within three days or so," she said, her voice firm as well, but showing a small sign of desperation. She ran a few fingers through her hair, and after pulling them out, discovered a few strands had fallen out. Sighing, she stands next to her chair, lips tight in a thin line. Letting out only a hmph, a small silence occurs between the two, more writing sounds occurring on the man's side.

After a few seconds, the woman speaks up again. "Now, for confirmation, will you be making the call or shall I?" she inquires, stopping typing for a moment. 

"No need to worry, I will make the call," the voice assures, stopping to think. "It is best that we wait a while, so that we can acquire as much information as we possibly can. In the mean time, I will notify the troops in the other districts of the rebellion plans." 

The woman nods, beginning to type again. "Yes, I believe that is our best course of action." Continuing to key, she presses the Enter button, and another screen displays with various codes. After a few more presses of buttons, the screen of the girl, Jennifer shows again. She is now at the door, which is then opened by another man, the man in the picture, accompanied by two other girls. Pressing a few more buttons, the printer shoots out the image on the screen.

Shifting through her pictures again, she picks out the third and fifth photographs. Putting them side by side on top of the papers, next to the most recently printed picture, she looks at each of them. The first was of a girl with black hair, head facing downwards, either in humiliation or humbleness. Making her look older than she actually was, bluish lips seeemed out of place as she gave a mysterious smile, on the same stage. The same man was there, though his hair was a dark red, a red tie matching it on his black suit. His hands were in a downward action, having just put on a crown with emeralds on the girl, who must have been bowing her head down for it to be put on, which was strange due to the large height difference between the two. 

The picture on the right was of an older girl, whose face seeemed much younger, as if it had been deliberately made to almost switch with the last one. She had a naturally clear complexion, her lips touched up to redden them, deep eyeliner applied to her soft, green eyes. The man yet again appeared in the photo, showing a white suit with the same red tie. His hair was the same dark red as in the other photo, though the color faded a bit, replaced by a dark brown. A large smile with the same perfect teeth showing, he shook hands with her, the girl awarded a silvery crown with aquamarine stones, lapis lazulite probably. 

In the center was the one she had just printed. All four- Jennifer, the man, and the two girls- were in the picture. Not having so much makeup on, they looked more natural, like real people. Jennifer stood a few feet from the door, the man with the same sparkling grin as his hand beckoned for the brunette to come in. The redhead and black-haired girl had inviting, friendly smiles. The one with black hair, 'Maggie Cross' as written on the back of the other photo, waved almost childishly to the girl, the shortest of the four. 

"Magdalyn- I mean, Maggie, and Verena, are with the two," the woman says. "I still can't believe that her name doesn't stand for anything." Turning the photo of her back, she looked at the name. Just above it, scribbled and scratched out, was 'Magdalyn Cross'. Upon finding out more about her, she learned that it was not an abbreviation for anything. 

"Rookie mistake," the man says, a smirk almost on his face. "But you've progressed." A small silence occurs, the woman not sure whether or not to ignore the compliment. 

She does. "Have troops been enlisted?" she asks, sitting down and folding one leg over the other, toying with her pen. 

"They're on their way to headquarters," he says. The sound of a door opening, followed by the shifting of keys and locking of locks, speaking ostensibly to himself. "Let the real Games begin."