1 Prologue
Prologue
Ryan Pov
The breeze whispered through the meadow, carrying with it the sweet scent of freedom. As I reclined on the lush grass, staring into the vast expanse above, a deceptive tranquility settled over the scene. But, deep within, I couldn't shake the harsh reality of the world I inhabited – a world where every year, the Hunger Games turned the innocent into pawns for Capitol entertainment.
Seventeen years had passed since my rebirth into this macabre reality, and as I pondered the twisted fate that bound me to District 12, I yearned for a life untainted by the brutal spectacle of the arena. The Capitol, with its opulence and excess, seemed a far cry from the coal-stained reality of my home district.
Yet, dwelling on alternate destinies proved futile. Only two reapings remained before I would be deemed ineligible for the Hunger Games, a thought that brought both relief and apprehension. The clock was ticking, and the ominous specter of the arena loomed ever closer.
Soft footfalls interrupted my contemplation, and as I turned, there she was – the Mockingjay herself, Katniss Everdeen. Her presence brought a mix of awe and trepidation; she was destined to be the symbol of rebellion, the spark that would ignite the flames against the Capitol's tyranny.
"What are you thinking about?" she inquired, her eyes reflecting a wisdom beyond her years.
I shared my whimsical idea of volunteering as the male tribute, a jest that momentarily darkened her features with horror. Yet, as laughter spilled from my lips, her stern expression dissolved into a begrudging amusement. Humor, it seemed, was a rare commodity in District 12, a place burdened by the weight of its harsh realities.
"It's not funny, Ryan," she chided with a frosty demeanor.
"Alright, Katnip, my apologies," I replied, attempting to lighten the mood with my most charming smile. Her cheeks tinged with a subtle blush, a reaction that betrayed a vulnerability beneath her stoic facade.
In this brutal world, at least the entity that had thrust me into this existence had bestowed upon me a pleasing countenance. Standing at six feet with piercing blue eyes and golden locks, I cut a figure of strength and allure in a district known more for its resilience than its aesthetics.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow upon the meadow, I couldn't help but marvel at the enigma of my existence. In a world that reveled in brutality, perhaps a touch of charm and humor could become my secret weapon against the impending darkness.
As we reluctantly rose from our peaceful spot, the reality of District 12's harshness greeted us. The stroll back home took us through the destitution of the Seam, where the inhabitants struggled under the oppressive weight of poverty. My heart ached with sympathy, a feeling exacerbated by the awareness that my personal efforts could only do so much, despite my father's tireless attempts.
"Undersee," a familiar voice sliced through my contemplation, and I turned to face Gale Hawthorne.
"Hawthorne," I acknowledged.
"What brings you here?" he inquired, his tone tinged with suspicion.
"Well, Katnip and I were occupied in the meadow, if you have to know," I quipped, playfully wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer.
Gale's expression darkened, and before I could revel in the mischief, Katniss jabbed her elbow into my ribs, swiftly extricating herself.
"Stop with the nonsense," she scolded, a flicker of offense in her eyes.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," I bowed dramatically, teasingly, eliciting an embarrassed blush from Katniss.
"See you both at the reaping tomorrow," I declared, sauntering away with a theatrical flourish. However, as I passed Gale, he couldn't resist a parting shot.
"I hope you get selected for the games," he muttered.
"The odds are certainly in your favor, Hawthorne, considering I don't collect tesserae," I retorted with a sarcastic grin, leaving him fuming in my wake.
I continued my stroll, leaving the impoverished Seam behind and entering the relatively more prosperous merchant section of District 12. Here, the faces were less gaunt, and a faint air of affluence lingered.
As I weaved through the various shops, my mind jogged with the task my mother had entrusted me with. The bakery stood before me, and upon entering, I was greeted by the amiable Mr. Mellark.
"Ryan, how are you doing, my boy?" he inquired, radiating warmth.
"I am well, Mr. Mellark," I replied, promptly conveying the list my mother had provided.
In no time, he summoned Peeta to fetch the requested loaves of bread. "Ryan!" Peeta called out, a rare smile gracing his face.
"How are you?" he asked.
"I'm fine, Peeta. But tell me, how is your art progressing?" I inquired, prompting a sheepish look from him.
After exchanging a few more words, I bid my farewells, the aroma of freshly baked bread lingering as I made my way back home.
As I stepped into the house, a scene unfolded before me – my mother, sitting by the dining table, hands clasped, head bowed. This pre-reaping ritual marked the only time I'd witness her visibly stressed, a stark contrast to her usual demeanor. Maysilee Donner, her twin, had entered the 50th Hunger Games and tragically lost her life, forever altering my mother's world.
My father often spoke of the transformation my mother underwent after Maysilee's demise. It was my birth that seemed to bring her back to a semblance of her former self, although the ghost of her sister haunted her gaze during moments of solitude.
"Mother," I called, interrupting her silent prayer. She turned towards me, slowly walking over, her eyes searching mine.
"Just look at you, all grown up. It will be alright; only two reapings left to go," she reassured, enveloping me in a tight hug.
After delivering the loaves to the kitchen, I sought out my father. His study, a realm of words and preparation for the 73rd Hunger Games, greeted me. I couldn't resist a quip about the Capitol's indifference to his speeches, only to be met with a cold stare and a curt directive to inform my mother of his imminent return for dinner.
In frustration, I blew a raspberry, leaving his study. The tension in the air weighed heavily, a symptom of the impending reaping. "Why does everyone have to be on edge?" I muttered, only to be met with my sister's heated response.
"Because they are scared, unlike you," Madge retorted angrily.
"Oh, Madge, how you wound your older brother with such cruel words," I teased, attempting to hug her, but she turned away.
"You are pathetic," she declared.
"I know," I replied with a laugh before retreating to my room. Its sparse furnishings held a bed and a study table, but more importantly, it housed memories and relics that were both cherished and painful.
As I opened a drawer, a throwing knife with my initials, R.U., came into view. It was a memento from a mentor, a friend – someone with dark hair, an olive complexion, and the same gray eyes as Katniss. Memories flooded back of the man who had taught me the ways of the woods and hunting.
I had intended to keep a safe distance from the main players in the Hunger Games narrative, but fate had other plans. He brought Katniss as well, and our lives became intertwined.
Mr. Everdeen's tragic death in a mine blast shattered the idyllic world we had built together. Despite my warnings, he perished, leaving me helpless, waiting for his return that would never happen.
After his funeral, I took on the responsibility of caring for the Everdeen family, ensuring Katniss and Prim had food and essentials. I foresaw Prim's inevitable reaping, Katniss's voluntary sacrifice, and the subsequent alliance with Peeta. Yet, I was destined to be a mere spectator, a silent witness to the unfolding drama, haunted by the memory of my mentor's toothy smile.
My room also housed a spear, a skill my father insisted I acquire for self-defense. Seven years of training with a peacekeeper, a precaution I couldn't fully comprehend. Our family was well-off, spared the need for tesserae, yet my father's insistence on preparedness remained a mystery.
At dinner, the heavy atmosphere persisted. My attempts at levity fell flat against the weight of impending doom. The air was thick with unspoken fears, making the meal a somber affair.
As I retired to bed, footsteps approached my door. "Just come in, Madge," I welcomed, knowing it was her annual pre-reaping visit. She entered in her nightdress, and despite her earlier accusation, I couldn't help but bring up her calling me pathetic.
Yet, as she nestled into the bed, fear in her eyes, my teasing ceased. "Ryan, I'm scared," she confessed.
"It will be alright," I reassured, gently stroking her golden curls. "What if we get selected for the Hunger Games? It will be an honor, won't it?" she wondered aloud, her voice trembling.
"But I do not want to," she admitted, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Nothing will happen to you, Madge," I promised. She questioned my lack of fear for my own name being drawn.
"It's like asking why water is wet, dear sister," I replied, offering a simple analogy to soothe her.
"You're an idiot," she said, attempting to hide her smile.
"But you still love me, right?" I asked playfully.
"No," she replied, sticking out her tongue.
"Oh, the betrayal from my own blood," I sighed, feigning heartbreak.
"Be quiet; otherwise, Mother will wake up," she cautioned.
"Alright," I agreed, and as we drifted into sleep
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"How do I look?" Madge inquired, awaiting my opinion. Without a moment's hesitation, I blurted out, "Shit," resulting in her throwing her shoe at me with lightning speed.
"Ryan!" Mother called out to me, beckoning me towards her. "You look so dashing," she complimented, a soft smile gracing her face. I was clad in a crisp grey shirt paired with dark black pants, and Mother meticulously groomed my hair.
"I'll meet you after the reaping ceremony, alright?" she said, bestowing a kiss upon both me and Madge. The three of us soon made our way towards the town square, joining a line of children aged twelve to eighteen.
As we approached, I felt the scrutinizing gazes of some girls, but my attention remained fixed on finding Katniss, who seemed to be doing the same. She wore a simple grey dress that I had gifted her.
"Look at the both of us, looking like a married couple," I teased, and she blushed in response.
"Undersee!" The voice that never failed to irk me called out.
"Hawthorne," I acknowledged.
"You should go and register," he suggested.
"After you, Mr. Hawthorne," I replied, and we started walking away. "Let's meet later, Katnip," I added, winking at her.
Once in line, Gale confronted me. "Why are you after her?" he demanded.
"What do you mean? She's my friend," I replied casually.
"You could get any girl in the district, but why her?" he pressed forcefully.
"Aw, someone's jealous," I taunted, sensing his readiness to strike. The presence of peacekeepers prevented an escalation.
As we finished our registration, the needles pricked our fingers, and we made our way towards the Justice Building. The stage was familiar, Father standing alongside the only living tribute of District 12, Haymitch Abernathy, muttering in his drunken stupor. Effie Trinket, the escort, looked down with delight.
Father began recounting the history of Panem, the First Rebellion, the rules of the Hunger Games, and the rewards for victory. Afterward, he announced the victor's name from District 12, prompting Haymitch to cheer before collapsing backward, escorted away by peacekeepers.
The Effie came and spouted some shit before exclaiming ,"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be EVER in your favor!".
As she plucked a chit and read the girl's name, a fourteen-year-old walked tearfully towards the stage. Gale's anger was palpable; he seemed to know her.
I sighed, accepting the harsh reality of life. But life had to go on.
No longer interested in the proceedings, I looked up at the sky. It seems like a good day for hunting, I thought. We could go to the lake as well; Katniss would love it.
Effie proceeded to draw the male tribute, and with a gravity that seemed to suspend time, she announced, "The Male tribute from District 12 is…"
"Ryan Undersee."
A deafening silence fell over everyone, and I felt the collective gaze of boys around me. The weight of their scrutiny bore down, and I became acutely aware of their eyes fixed on me. A woman's scream echoed through the air.
"Why is Mother screaming?" I wondered a momentary confusion clouding my thoughts. Glancing at Gale, I saw a pure shock reflected on his face, mirroring the disbelief coursing through my own veins.
Then, like an unexpected tempest, the truth struck me with a brutal force—I was chosen for the 73rd Hunger Games.
Fuck.
