BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
( HEARTBEAT )
SEETHED PAINS behind gritted teeth; the wail of cattle drawn into slaughterhouses, rotting as they walk on uneven cobbles and glass scattered dirt paths; sloshing sounds of mud-stained milk carried by mothers in one hand, a child wailing in the other.
This is the melancholic heartbeat of District Ten.
"We have the second-highest tesserae rates out of all the Districts," a stocky man mentions while pushing a young girl forward by the small of her back. She squirms a little, adjusting a faded green ribbon tight around her waist. "Yet we have more rats than people here to claim it."
The girl looks up, grey eyes wandering through her father's dismay. "The cattle will feed tonight, at least."
"And we will feast on a steak after," he replies, tugging taught lips into something that almost resembles a smile. "Just like we did last year."
She produces a smile that cuts through the murk of the sky above. It's out of place and hardly inspiring, but it makes her father's grin slightly brighter. The crowd behind them seems distant, a wild sea of beige cloth and clear white metal, when he shifts his gaze down towards her. He moves the hand once behind her up to her shoulders and smoothes down a small crease that bridges over a jauntily stitched patch.
Carter cannot help in remarking how tall his daughter is now, only at the mere age of thirteen: so strong, so wise, so uncannily alike both her parents. He strokes the mousey strands of hair that fall in front of her ears — short, yet still unruly — until there is nothing that remains able to hide her face. It is a moment that he has not yet quite gotten used to and, no doubt, ever shall.
He sighs through his nose and offers one last frail smile. "Perhaps I'll even let you kill the beast? I promise, it makes it taste so much better."
"That would be nice," she says and pulls him into a hug. His embrace is warm and the rough linen of his shirt is about rough enough to mimic her bedsheets at home. When she shuts her eyes, a brief moment passes and she can see the fields of the ranch again, the scent of the animals and the hard tilled soil swelling in her nose. It's comforting, somehow, in some sick sense of nostalgia. The borders of District Ten smelt nicer than the square. There, on the outskirting ranches and vast meadowing fields, you cannot get poisoned by the pollution which suffocates the air.
Her father finally pulls away and begins to kneel down in front of her, his hand moving quickly to the pocket of his loose overalls. Intertwined with his fingers and tangled around calloused scar marks lies a partially rusted chain necklace. The spots where the movement has caused its original shine to stay flicker lights against his dirtied skin, spots of that dark orange rust dappling the reflection.
"Here," he declares as the girl begins to lower her head. Carter leans forward, placing the chain to rest on soft skin. "Some silver, for Silver."
It is not long until a man head-to-toe in artificial white orders him away as a stream of people makes their way past. Carter offers his daughter one last squeeze of her shoulder and takes a step back, watching as her frame is absorbed by a line of children — all dressed in their own best clothes, all tugging at the fabric against them in a snug fit. When he blinks, he tries to find her again, but she is lost to the swarm.
The girl makes her own way through the District square from here. Though full of life, the bleak cream stones and the banners hanging from the higher floors draw a hollow rigour upon its citizens. She can imagine how it must feel in the other eleven Districts at a time like this, the ones she can recall from the television reaching out to her mind eagerly. They are bright and colourful in the richer Districts, nearly filled with an awful dash of hope — false and overbearing. She's grateful for that, maybe. If the District Ten square is the worst of her home, she hates to think that those places may be the best of theirs.
There's a small tussle between a Peacekeeper and a child older than her as she waits in line. He's stocky but paler than her — a child of the northern border, perhaps — and he's put down like a limp draught horse before he can lay a real hit on any Capitol official. The others move along the line as if nothing has happened, just as he is pricked, stamped off and carried to the front of the group of children arranged before the Mayor's house. She's seen it happen every year, of course. It always happens; a child of the poultry farms, too bullish for their own good. She remembers her father telling her that when they get reaped for the games, District Ten is the first to lose both Tributes.
The girl is stamped soon after, a second blood prick on her forefinger. There will be more, no doubt, and they will hurt the same every year. As she is filed towards the back of the crowd of children, this time a little further forward, she licks away the red stain that has begun to trickle down her skin.
District Ten's Mayor begins her usual speech about the Dark Days and the Treaty of Treason and all the gruesome history of rebellion that every child is taught in their schools as soon as they are able to write out the alphabet. Behind him, three of the District's still surviving Victors sit rigidly on wooden stools. The youngest one looks ill — his cheeks near blue with a fever, youth fading from his eyes — forced to watch and attend his duty; another is an older woman, hair white and hands shaking; the last Victor wears a tight frown, his hands holding so firmly against his knees that she can see the whites of his knuckles from the very back of the crowd.
The District Escort, Atlanta, follows — a woman teetering on heels and attempting to balance a towering teal wig atop her head. As she steps forward, the wig sways. In front of the girl in the crowd, a boy chuckles and his friend as to push their boot into his toes to shut him up.
"I say every year that District Ten is my favourite District," she begins, her voice shrill and laced with a sweetness everyone around her is foreign to. She flounces her arms around until they land before her, clasped, and lets long acrylic nails click together for a second. "So charming... So eager to send two lucky souls to this year's Seventy-Third Annual Hunger Games."
What seems to be a sigh transforms into a childish squeal as she trots over — albeit a slight bit prematurely — over towards the first bowl of reaped names. She stumbles over words of endearment towards the happiness of the Games as she does, singing out praises for the Victors sat along the back wall of the building, listing them all by name and complimenting them all one by one.
From this point, what occurs is simply routine. Atlanta makes a joke, it batters against the cold silent wall of the audience in front of her, and she swiftly declares that the Ladies have the honour of being chosen first.
It's the glee in which she does so that causes Silver to bite down on her tongue with just enough force that she sits on the edge of feeling any pain. A silence swarms her ears, nothing but the beat of her own heart and the natural screeches of cattle battered into cages behind to maintain the rhythm of her thoughts. There is no point looking into the crowd of adults for the final reassurances of her father. He is likely nestled in with another group of men, all of similar appearance and stature. Among children of her own age, she can barely see over their shoulders.
Atlanta twirls her fingers into the bottom of the girls' glass bowl and nimble fingers select a slip that is neatly tucked away on the left-hand side. She crosses over the bowl and walks back to the podium, smoothing out the chosen name with her thumbs.
Everyone is shaking, yet not a word is said, nor a single breath too loud. Atlanta reads the name out clear and the girl cannot bear to take her gaze back up.
Silver Quinn. Silver Quinn. Silver Quinn.
The name beats around her as if a mantra or the weepings of family and friends at a funeral — mourning a child whose corpse is already destined to be.
It is her name.
Silver.
"Silver Quinn? Come out darling," Atlanta calls and Silver can barely believe it has been a second since her name was read aloud. She casts her view back up and all the children, that sea of sick beige, send their stern eyes her way. The laughing boy in front of her is quiet.
The world has never felt this quiet.
What feels like another second passes and so does the cautious optimism that someone might cry out in sadness for her. There is no sound of her father. Maybe he is still and shocked somewhere in the crowd. Silver can imagine that — the strong and stoic figure digging in scratches on the back of his hands with blunt nails.
Eventually, she begins to move and she's not entirely sure if her feet have begun without her permission or if a Peacekeeper's hand is gently forcing her forward through the natural parting in the mass of children. She is numb to the sensation of thousands of eyes stabbing stares into her back; she is numb to the blood which rushes through her veins at a speed she has never felt before; she is numb to the touch of the District Escort on her shoulder once she gets to the platform.
She may be numb, but she can feel her tears damp against the ridge of her nose — chilling, despite the sun baring down through thick white clouds. After a while, she feels one roll off of her chin and onto the light green of her blouse. Stained, now.
Atlanta doesn't notice. She is too busy jeering the crowd with celebrations and comments about their new District Ten Tribute.
"How old are you, darling?" Atlanta asks, her voice still addressing the crowd — one firm dig of her nails into Silver's shoulder to remind the girl who she truly addresses.
"Thirteen," is the only word Silver has enough strength to part with. She balls her knuckles into a white fist of her own.
She's not old, but she began to feel like someone aged beyond her years many moons ago. Too much work, too many jobs around the farm, has proven against once smooth skin. Her hands have set about to resemble the scratched and scarred ones of her fathers. Down her palm, right from the bay of her two middle fingers travelling straight down her wrist, is a long rope burn from a few weeks ago. As she clutches her fingers in the middle of her scrunched fist, she can still feel it sting. That is not a sting a thirteen-year-old should have to endure.
But thirteen she is, and thirteen she will remain. It is then, when Atlanta begins to flurry about over towards the boys' reaping bowl, that she is burdened with the sick reminder that her next birthday shall likely be spent in the Arena.
If she even lasts that long.
She is fresh meat, perhaps; another meal for those more skilled than her to snack on — nothing but a tally checked off on their list to victory. She might not be the youngest, that is true. There will be others, maybe twelve-year-olds thrust into the Games of their first reaping. These are easy kills for those hungry predators. The youngsters are the prey: blood destined to be spilt, bodies blessed with death before life.
The Capitol are always right. Twenty-four go into the Arena and only one comes out.
"Boys next." Atlanta almost shouts this, eager to serve and eager to please. Her hands dive inside the glass and grabbed out a small white slip of paper. Silver can look this time. It's easier to watch and simpler to swallow the building breath stuck in her throat."The male Tribute from District Ten is James Oak."
The name is unrecognisable and, for a moment, Silver battles with the question of whether that is a good thing or not. A friend would have been nice, though she has very few. If she is going to die, it may as well be in good company. On the other hand, the thought of a stranger dying alongside her is slightly nicer to digest. She won't have to worry about them and they won't have to worry about her. It seems to be a better trade-off.
A lanky boy makes his way up the stairs from a little further forward in the crowd than she — a few rows ahead of the laughing boy from earlier. He greets Atlanta with a reluctant smile and, at least, it's more than Silver had to offer for a first impression. There's energy in his step and strength in his legs. Ranch and farm work is something Silver cannot see in his stance.
"How old are you?" Atlanta asks again in standard ceremony. She clasps her hands on each of his shoulders and forces him into a polite hug. His smile strains and his eyes squint — the hint of blue in them darkening.
His voice is deeper than she expects when he says, "I'm fifteen."
James' brow casts a shadow over his face when Atlanta asks the two Tributes to greet one another. He is the first one to approach, and Silver can already see a faint shake in his extended hand. She responds cautiously, only offering a half-open hand for him to grasp. The greeting is over quicker than it began.
This is the boy with whom she will meet her death.
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