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

Page Forty-Four

Oenothera

We have arrived in District Thirteen, the Arena for the New Hunger Games. My father's wedding ring is tied around my neck by a piece of cord I found on the floor. It gives me hope and strength, but my knees still knock together.

The Tributes are told to line up at the door of the hovercraft and we do so, Districts One through Twelve. I am last in the line, and seemingly I am the only one from Twelve. I'm relieved at that fact, but also scared, because it's one less person to kill, but one less person to talk to.

We are told that the Arena has not been modified very much by the Gamemakers simply because President Snow wants this experience to by 'raw and real'. I think of the inscription on the ring and shudder, wondering how the same word can mean two entirely different things and bring forth two entirely different feelings. 

They have skipped the styling process, saying it is a waste of money and time, and that this new Capitol is not shallow and conceited like the old one. There will be no Cornocopia either, because supplying us with weapons this early in the game would make for carnage too soon. So we are given a weapon each, one that reflects a past Hunger Games era, a past Tribute from our District. The weapons we get are old and shappy, and look as if they could break at the touch. There are rusty spears and swords, rickety tridents, knives so blunt they wouldn't cut butter. 

And what do they give me?

A bow, of course. It's made of wood and made badly at that. I take it gingerly and get several splinters in one go. I inhale sharply, pulling shards of mouldy wood from my fingertips and suck it up. I can do this. I get three arrows, and one is missing a fletch, so it is practically useless. Another is bent, and the last one is blunt.

I'm already dead.

We reach the place where the battle will commence. A large door opens at the other side of the hovercraft and we are lined up, each handed an orange backpack with a parachute in them. 

"This is being televised throughout the whole of Panem. Everyone in your nation and more importantly, your District, are watching you. Make them proud," a guard says, shouting against the wind. "Once you jump from the hovercraft, pull the black tab after a count of five. This will release the parachute. You will then take roughly two minutes to reach the ground." He clears his throat. "And also, one of these bags does not contain a parachute, so the first Tribute to die will be out of chance, and will plunge to their death immediately."

My heart sinks. I know it's not mine. I'm a tool to be used; they need me much longer than this. The other kids in the line whimper, and my heart sinks for them. I look away, slinging my bow over my shoulder, trying not to remember their faces.

One by one, they jumped out, pulling the black tap far earlier than told. I wait for the scream that announces the unlucky Tributes' immediate death, but everyone screams, even the black haired, burly guy from Two.

I stand on the end of the exit, the wind rushing in from outside. Wasn't I meant to enter differently from the other Tributes? Maybe I have the faulty parachute. But I don't. I can't believe I do. This hovercraft is travelling at a dangerous speed. I swallow, pull back my shoulders, and get ready to jump, trying to ignore the blur of the rumble we speed past. One of us is already dead. I close my eyes.

"Wait." There is a hand on my shoulder. I am roughly pulled back and shoved forward to the other side of the hovercraft. They push me through a door, and this time it's not out into the open sky, but another hovercraft. I am confused and uncertain, but I don't show it.

"Time to fly, Mockingjay," President Snow's vindictive voice echoes through this specialised hovercraft. Then, the craft I'm in breaks off from the main craft and I am flying alone. I look out the windows of the vehicle I am in, and I see a gold plated wing.

I am in the Mockingjay craft. I am flying into the area, no, gliding, sailing through the air gracefully. I can practically hear Panem's 'oohs' and 'aahs' as they see me flying in first class into the Arena. I imagine it looks very impressive, this machine. Out the window I see grey rubble, a wasteland, and little orange dots that are my fellow Tributes. As I grow closer, I see a red patch instead of orange, a body that resembles a fly that flew too fast into a window. The body is mangled and coated in blood.  One down. Twenty one to go.

My Mockingjay craft lands, the door opens. The Hunger Games begin.