Chapter 1

I couldn't have slept if I tried. It was much easier to watch the painfully slow progression of the moon through the night sky than it was to try and evoke sleep upon myself. The soft rays of the pre-sunrise made the candy colors and sharp hues of the Capitol seem almost natural. A soft breeze met me on the balcony and gently whispered its good mornings. It still carried the bite of night's chill, but I was too numb to feel it. Numb was good.

It wouldn't be long before I would be sought out. Called to breakfast. Made to participate in careless conversation. Soon my routine life as a prisoner would begin its cycle. I sighed. I couldn't stop it from beginning.

Turning from my view of the Capitol, I headed back into my room. Plain. White walls. Wreaking of artificiality. This is where I spent my waking hours. I looked at myself in the mirror as I tried to tame my windswept hair with a brush. Pale skin, blotched with freckles, jutting cheek bones and nearly sunken cheeks; this is what I knew as my face. A normal look. It was not healthy, nor unhealthy; not beautiful, nor ugly. My hair, rich brown with hints of blonde and red, draped limply to just below my chin, shadowing the sharp lines that constructed my face. Everything about me was plain and unexciting. Except my eyes. My eyes were stunning. Bright blue. Clear as the summer sky. Shinning with life and smoldering with a deep-set hate and lust for revenge. Not hunger or exhaustion or defeat could dull them. My father's eyes.

A sharp succession of knocks rapt on my door. It snapped me from my thoughts, my daily evaluation of myself. I opened it. There was President Snow, sporting his wispy smile that hinted of cruel humor and eyes that could see right through you.

"Morning Thirteen," he said as he always did in his voice that lacked emotion but couldn't be called monotone. He gave a chuckle that lacked good humor as he began walking off, expecting me to follow.

I did. Thirteen; it was his pet name for me. The thirteenth prisoner from District 13. I was reminded of that every time he said my nickname. Reminded of the explosions. Of the running. Of the panic. Reminded of what the Capitol did to my home, my friends. To my father who was the reason I hadn't died with them. That nickname was what kept the rebellion burning in my eyes.

We emerged into a room with a table spread with food and a huge window spanning the whole wall giving us a view of the whole city. Two boys already sat at the table. These were my fellow prisoners. Together, we were the entire surviving population of District 13.

I sat at my place and began to fill my plate. I took a few handfuls of a strange orange fruit that I knew had a sweet and salty taste to it and snatched a full loaf of light airy bread for my own. President Snow sat on a black leather armchair in the corner of the room, sipping a cup of some dark, steamy liquid. I eyed him warily as I ate, trying not to show how hungry was, trying to keep from showing weakness. I couldn't help but feel uneasy with him watching me; or, us, I should say. No matter how many years I had spent the object of his gaze, I couldn't get over the shivers it causes me. He was like a snake. I never knew when he would strike with fangs gleaming.

I avoided talking with the other two prisoners, both boys. I knew what was going to happen. We all knew. It was easy to deduce. It had happened many times before. The Hunger Games were approaching fast. There could only be two tributes from District 13. And there couldn't be only a single tribute for the next Hunger Games. One of the two boys weren't going to see the start of this Hunger Games. I tried to decide who it was going to be. So I would be expecting it. So it wouldn't affect my performance in the Hunger Games. So I wouldn't give President Snow the satisfaction of seeing the mortified surprise on my face when he announces the made-up reason for the prisoner's death, 

I size up the two boys. One's about my age. Tall, healthy, though nothing impressive. Not like the other one. The other boy has muscles that make his shirt tight across his arms and chest. He towers above us and President Snow. But for his intimidating appearance, he's not at all intimidating. He's lost his fire. His shoulders have that defeated slump about them. Back when I was younger, when we all lived happily back in District 13, I would feel sympathy for someone who carried that air of defeat. But I'm no longer who I was in District 13. I feel no pity, no sympathy, and no shame in out-showing him. My imprisonment hadn't smoothed out the edges in my personality. It had sharpened them into a deadly weapon. In a sense, I had become amoral. But I hoped not. I believed that the girl I was back in District 13 is now buried beneath a more vicious person, someone more intent of survival and self-preservation than the silly things I cared about as a child.

President Snow's voice broke into my thoughts, bringing me back to the breakfast table and my sad life.

"Alright you three. I expected you back here are one o' clock sharp. Don't be late." His tone seems casual, but his eyes reflect the deathly warning in his words. Don't be late. If you're late, you won't see the next sunrise. Or the next one. Or the one after that. You get my drift.

The three of us stand simultaneously. This seems to amuse President Snow to no end, in a cruel, viscious, cause-you-to-shiver sort of way. I leave quickly. We all do. I can't wait to slip into the city, into the crowds. Just to disappear from President Snow's snake-like gaze for one minute. I shudder a bit. Somehow, I feel like that's impossible to do.