Growing up in District 12 is the worst thing that can happen to a child of Panem.
In the capitol, and the wealthy districts, children sought the aprobation of their parents. In the intermediate districts, children sought to be useful to their paren...
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I open my eyes slightly, but the blinding light overhead clouds my vision, forcing me to squint and blink until I can see clearly. It takes a few seconds, but eventually, the light dims enough for me to make out my surroundings. I'm in a room similar to the last one—sterile, cold, and utterly devoid of comfort. This room is smaller, though, there's a single, small window directly in front of me, but the glass is frosted, blocking any view of the outside world. Not that there would be much to see in this hellish place. Cables hang from the ceiling like serpents, thin tendrils that connect to various machines around me. My gaze drifts downward, and I notice that several of those cables are inserted directly into my chest. Panic spikes through me, and without thinking, I reach up and yank them out, the action causing the beeping to quicken into a frantic rhythm before it ceases altogether, leaving behind an eerie, hollow silence.
"It was a vital signs monitor. There was no need to take it off," a voice cuts through the quiet, startling me. My eyes dart to the small window, and there she is—Dr. Arcel, standing on the other side of the glass, her expression as unreadable as ever.
"Of course, because everything went so well the last time you all connected me to a machine," I snap, my voice sharper than I intended. Anger flares within me, hot and uncontrollable, but beneath it is fear—raw and visceral. I don't know how I'm managing to keep up this facade of defiance when every part of me is screaming in terror.
"I have to admit that your reaction was surprising but really great. I didn't think you had it in you to be so powerful," she says, her tone disturbingly congratulatory. It's as if she's complimenting me on a job well done, rather than acknowledging the horrors she's put me through.
"I'm glad you liked playing with my body," I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "May I go now?"
"Oh, no," she replies, that same Machiavellian smile from before creeping across her face. My heart sinks as I realize just how far we are from finished. "I have to check your skills to see that you meet the stipulated presidential requirements."
"And if not, what happens?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly despite my attempt to sound indifferent.
"If it doesn't happen, I think you can imagine what could occur. But be grateful—it's truly surprising that you are in such good condition. Only a couple of test subjects survived their initial outbreak, even considering that the reaction was less than yours."
"How many before me?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, though inside, I'm anything but. The number doesn't really matter, but I need to know. I need to understand the full scope of the nightmare I've been dragged into.
"You are Subject 197. The project has been in process since Dr. Gaul's first subject. Miss Dovecote is her name if you care," she says, as if casually mentioning the weather. Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. All this time, I had held onto a sliver of hope—hope that somehow, some way, I might survive this. That Snow might show mercy, or that I would be strong enough to endure. But now, with every word she speaks, that hope withers and dies, replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.
