The Hunger Games: Book Four - How it Might Have Been ... Gale.

Page Forty

Oenothera

Days later, when I am full and fat and plump, I am escorted out of my cell down the long corridors towards the white rooms where I last saw President Snow and my father. My eyes are stinging from the sudden illumination surrounding me after days of dark captivity, but I welcome the pain. I need to prepare myself, because I know that the Hunger Games will start soon, and I will have no choice but to endure pain.

I'm half-sure of what to expect before the Games begin, but I don't voice my questions to the guards that escort me. I have heard them speak before, so they are not - what's the term? - Avoxes, yet I don't trust them enough to hold a conversation with them. The answers will be given to me soon enough, whether I want them or not.

To my surprise we continue descending steps, down, down, down, under the dungeon level even, until we are in a bay where dormant hovercrafts lie. It seems to be some sort of loading area. Workers scuttle here and there, loading supplies into various hovercrafts and other vehicles I have never seen the likes of before. The guards continue to walk me forward, not giving me a moment to look around.

Something catches my eye, however. In the corner furthest away from me is a huge, spikey shaped hovercraft, half-covered by a blanket. It is plated in gold, this machine, with workers welding and working on it furiously. It seems to be of some importance, for President Snow himself is standing next to it, barking orders, his figure dwarfed by the size of the machine. I can't hear what he's saying, though, because this bay is too vast and echoey.

I am prodded from behind and an electric shock goes through me. One of the guards is pushing me forward; obviously I had slowed down without noticing. Without saying a word to me, these guards usher me up a steep ramp and into one of the more generic, grey hovercrafts. The door slide shut behind me with a hiss, concealing the room I stand in in darkness and blocking out the sound from outside in the bay. I hear breathing in the corner of this room, so I don't move.

There is a heartbeat of silence. Are they going to kill me now, here, in a secret little room inside a hovercraft where no one can see me? Surely my death was a tool for them, something too important to throw away like this.

Suddenly, lights switch on from above and the room is illuminated. It is huge in here, with a ceiling so high I can hardly see the top. Benches line the bare walls, and upon these benches are children. Children. Some are my age, some are younger, an equal mixture of boys and girls. All eyes are on me, and suddenly, I realise what we are all doing here. There are 24 of us. We are the Tributes.

"Oenothera Mellark," President Snow's voice booms from above, startling the already scared children. I stand tall. "Meet your fellow Tributes. You are all currently sitting aboard the hovercraft that will take you to the Arena where the New Hunger Games will commence almost immediately. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

The silence resumes again, until a child cries out and begins to wail in terror. These children have been picked to be sent to their doom. I'm sure I should recognise some of them as they are probably descendants of previous Tributes, but I cannot distuingish anyone in particular. There are the tawny coloured Tributes from District 11, the blonde, pale Tributes from 1 and 2, the sea-foam green eyed Tributes from District 4. Anyone of them could be a cousin of Finnick Odair, a niece of Rue, a nephew of Cato. But we are all the same now, united by one thing - doom.

"Mellark," a grumbly-voiced guard walks up to me. "It's time for you to meet your mentor."

Someone is pushed out from a dark room to the side, his hands bind behind his back. Despite myself, I flinch back in terror.

It's my Dad.