Let the Flames Begin

PROLOGUE - the tribute.

Joe's always felt like he has this spark—this flicker of something deep inside him that he can't quite describe except it feels like the beginnings of something more. It sounds nuts when he says it out loud and he doesn't really dwell on it too much, because it feels weird and wrong to even acknowledge the idea of being Destined for Greatness or whatever when you live in a place where capital-G Greatness isn't something you aspire to (not that he'd want to—he's seen how those kinds of kids turn out). It's just—it's there, and he feels it, low and warm deep in the recesses of his chest like if he tried hard enough, he could reach out and grab it and unleash it on everyone—the District, the Capitol, the whole of Panem.

He told this to Andy once, though he hadn't meant to—he'd blurted it out on the floor of Pete's basement with the smell of weed and District Seven-smuggled moonshine hanging thick in the air. Smoke had billowed from his lips when he spoke and Andy turned on his side to face him, propped himself up on one elbow, a black bandanna tied over his mouth to block out the chemicals.

Andy said, quietly, "Tell me more."

Joe's face grew hot and he waved him off, let out a nervous snort. "Nah, dude, I can't, it's stupid. You won't get it."

"Try me," Andy said. Even in darkness, with the only light coming from the orange sparks of the blunt in Joe's hand, he could see Andy's eyes crinkling, the faint hint of a smile.

Joe let out another breath, lips pursed. He imagined a candle, glowing in the dark, blown out by the mere force of that spark of something residing in him. The thought of holding that much power, in a district that dedicated its only power to the Capitol, made him shiver.

"Promise not to laugh," he said, vaguely croaky.

"Promise," Andy echoed, his eyes wide and sincere.

Joe took in a deep breath, the blunt wavering in his trembling fingers. His mouth felt unusually dry; he wished he had water or booze or something to fix it, though he wasn't sure whether it was smoke or nerves or something else entirely. But he began to speak anyway, and Andy didn't laugh, not once. He listened and nodded and then, when Joe could feel his eyelids drooping, the pull of sleep calling him despite his best efforts to ward it off, Andy took off his glasses, tugged down his bandanna, and placed a hand on Joe's cheek, gentle, light.

"You're pretty fuckin' special, you know that, Trohman?" he murmured, running a thumb along the pimpled surface of Joe's cheek, the sharp line of Joe's jaw. "That thing you've got in you, that spark or whatever it is—it's there for a reason. Don't ignore it, you hear me? Your life might depend on it."

(Joe nodded. At least, he thinks he did. Honestly, after the whole face-touching thing, which had sent his confused, teenage hormonal brain into a flurry of confusion and excitement, everything's kind of a blur.

The message was pretty clear, though.)

That was four years ago.

It's amazing how much can happen in four years. Joe shot up five inches, started growing facial hair, managed to break his nose twice—and that's just everything that happened to him.

He has to wonder, looking back on it, if maybe Andy knew what was coming—if that one night, lying on the floor of Pete's basement, was a clue, an indication of things to come. Andy was always the smartest of them all, always one step ahead of the game, always guessing the next move before anyone else thought to anticipate it.

Maybe that's why he left.

And maybe that's why, two months later, the morning Pete was reaped, Joe woke up with a sinking feeling in his stomach and the clatters and bangs of the power plant in the distance ringing in his ears like a death knell.