Chapter Text
March 16th, 75 ADD — Capitol, Panem
Jem—17 year old Victor of the 72nd Hunger Game—sat on the couch of his Capitol assigned house, trying to keep his nerves under control. He had no reason to be nervous. Today was just the announcement of the Quarter Quell, not the actual Hunger Games. I'll be fine, it's not like they can send me back. For one, the Capitol may genuinely riot if I was killed, Jem mused, but couldn't quite convince himself. After the... less than ideal ending of the 74th Hunger Games, he had sensed a change in Snow and the Districts. The undercurrent of revolution swept through the Districts, resulting in crack downs in Districts such as Eleven, Twelve, and even his home District of Six.
Snow, on the other hand, seemed to be scheming something. Last time Jem had seen him, Snow had a simmering anger about him, one that Jem was very familiar with—he saw it everytime he looked in the mirror. He had no reason to believe that the upset with the 74th Hunger Games would affect him, but his intuition told him differently. Over the last few years, his intuition had almost never been wrong.
There were only a few more minutes until the announcement, so Jem turned on the TV. Ceasar Flickerman was on screen, talking about saints-know-what. He seemed to already have chosen his hair color for that year, which was a light dusty pink. Jem turned the volume almost all the way down, entirely uninterested in what Ceasar was saying. He had the TV on because of mandatory viewing more than anything. Even though he now lived almost full time in the Capitol, he was still District—a fact he was reminded of almost every single waking hour of everyday.
The countdown was close to 2 minutes now, only aggravating Jem's nerves further. He absentmindedly reached up to his necklace and started playing with it. It was a habit like everything else, a tick he couldn't get rid of after his games. The Six necklace was a staple part of his appearance, one that even his clients couldn't argue with. Jem's eyes were still glued to the screen, however, as the countdown moved almost inhumanly slow.Why am I nervous? The last two Quarter Quells were horrific, sure, but they never effected those exempt from the games.
When the countdown hit 30 seconds, Jem turned up the volume so he could hear. He caught only the end of Ceasar talking before the announcement truly started. ".... This is a historic moment, for sure. The Third Quarter Quell! Imagine that!" Ceasar laughed. "Now, let's go to the president himself, with the announcement that could shock us all." The scene on the TV transitioned to Snow standing outside the presidential mansion, a small, discolored envelope held in his hand. Snow ignored the envelope, however, and instead started explaining the history behind the Quarter Quell.
The first Quarter Quell forced the Districts to vote on their Tributes, and the Second Quarter Quell had double the Tributes. Jem knew all of this already, of course, but it didn't help him guess what could be the Third. Send in only 12 year olds? That would be a bloody mess, but it would result in the first ever 12 year old Victor. It would also quell the revolution nicely, as watching children slaughter eachother was always easy on the stomach. Jem would almost bet on that, if it weren't for the way Snow's eyes glinted. Snow's eyes had a look to them, one that spoke of revenge. It didn't bode well.
Jem had zoned out while Snow droned on about the history, and only zoned back in when he heard the opening of an envelope. His attention the returned go the screen, lazer focused on the envelope. Snow opened the envelope with little ceremony, holding it up to read. “On the 75th anniversary,” Snow reads, almost agonizingly slow—which Jem's sure is on purpose—“as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female Tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of Victors.”
There was sound after that, but Jem didn't quite hear anything past the rushing in his ears. Existing Victors? Jem thought, wondering if he saw it right. He was about to rewind the TV, sure he had heard it wrong, until he saw Ceasars face. The almost permanent smile, one very similar to Jem's, was gone. He looked as surprised as anyone else.They didn't tell Ceasar, Jem thought hysterically, a laugh bubbling up from his throat.Ceasar, the man who is most comfortable when in front of a camera, as no Saints damned clue what to say.
Jem suddenly stood up, unceremoniously turning off the TV. There was no doubt about it, he'd be going back into the arena. That morphling had died from an overdose last year, leaving only Jem and the girl morphling as eligible for the games. "sh*t!" Jem shouted, not caring who heard him. Anger boiled in his veins, replacing the nerves of earlier. That lying, scheming son of a bitch lied. He's going to kill me right as my contract ends, Jem thought bitterly. What's worse, is that he knew exactly why this Quell had been created.
There was almost no chance that it had been made at the start of the Hunger Games like they had claimed. No, it was too coincidental. This was a direct attack against the winners of the 72nd Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark—the two love-birds who started a revolution. It was against Katniss especially, as she had been the one who seemed to orchestrate the ending with the berries and the only living female Victor in Twelve. Unfortunately, it just so happened that Jem was in the exact position as her. He was the only living male Victor, so he'd be in that arena with her. Lucky him.
After a few minutes of pacing, Jem grabbed his coat and left his house. He wasn't in the mood to stay inside anymore. He walked aimlessly, trying to cool the anger permeating every fiber of his being. He should be planning, he should be reviewing every Victor still alive and all of their strengths, but that would be for later. Later, when he wasn't scared out of his mind. Jem would be one of the youngest going into the arena, only being outclasses by the problem herself. Some of the people he would have to kill would be careers with biceps the size of watermelons that could probably crack his skull with ease.
And, as if he wasn't already at a disadvantage, Jem's illness had been getting exponentially worse over the last few months. Blood was almost a permanent taste in his mouth, and no matter how much sleep he got, it never seemed to be enough. So, as a summary, he was just short of screwed.A middle-aged career, a druggie, and a sickly teenager walk into an arena. What is this, a sh*tty sitcom? Jem thought, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. Thankfully, there were no people out and about, so he didn't have to deal with the stares he knew he'd be getting soon. After all, they would be looking at a walking dead man.
A few days later, when Jem had resigned himself to his fate and started planning, there was a knock on his door. He cautiously went to answer it, not knowing who would be showing up at his house at this time. He didn't have any clients today, and no one ever visited him during this time of year. He looked into the peephole, seeing someone he had never seen before, but looked important. Jem sighed, before plastering on a smile and opening the door. "How can I help you, sir?" He asked, voice much happier than he looked.
He had kind of neglected himself the past few days, only keeping himself at the bare level of presentable. His clothing wasn't meant to be seen by anyone, as he hadn't left the house in a few days, and he didn't have any makeup on. The surprise visitor didn't seek to care, however, hardly seeming to even notice. "Hello. Are are James Blackthorn?" The light haired, middle-aged man in suit asked. Jem just nodded, looking him up and down. The man didn't look like a threat at the moment, but he had long since learned that people in the Capitol didn't have to look it to be dangerous.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, the new Head Gamemaker for the upcoming Hunger Games," The man introduced himself, holding out a hand to shake. Jem shook it, but only long enough for it to not be seen as rude. "The pleasure is mine," Jem responded by habit. Plutarch just nodded—at what, Jem was unsure. "Well, I have something I'd like to discuss with you. Mind if I come in?" Plutarch asked, setting off warning signals in Jem's mind. Whatever Plutarch had to discuss, it clearly couldn't be said outside where nosey neighbors may be watching.
After a few seconds of deliberation, Jem internally sighed and signaled for Plutarch to enter. "Come in. I'll have to clear off my couch real quick, as I wasn't expecting any visitors," Jem explained, leaving Plutarch at the door. He went over to the coffee table, where biographies and game descriptions were strewn across it's surface. He swept them all into a stack, uncaring at what order they fell in. He had memorized just about everything already, anyways. Plutarch came into view a few moments after Jem had found a place to put the papers. He looked around Jem's apartment as if assessing something—or looking ofr something—before sitting down on the couch.
Jem finished putting everything away and sat on an arm chair a fair distance away from Plutarch. "So, what is it you needed to discuss?" Jem asked, ready to get right to the point. Plutarch seemed to agree with him, as he launched straight into questioning. "What are your opinions on the Quell?" He asked, something calculating in his voice. "Do be honest. I swear on my name as a Gamemaker that I won't tell anyone."
Jem almost laughed outloud at the promise, not believing a word of it.Yeah right. Sure, you won't tell Snow. You'll just make my life hell in the arena if I tell you the truth, Jem thought doubtfully. Instead of saying that, though, he just shrugged. "It'll be like any other year, I suppose, I'll just be one of the ones getting my hands dirty this go around," Jem lied easily. Plutarch seemed disappointed with his answer, though Jem couldn't fathom why.Did you want me to give you a reason to target me? Like hell I would.
"Do you think you'll win? You'll be facing Victors much more experienced and older than you," Plutarch asked, once again something in his voice. Jem couldn't figure out why he was being asked these questions, especially by the Head Gamemaker himself. "It's really too tough to say. I killed careers in my games when I was fourteen, though obviously they aren't the same as the Victors. Though, that's not to say I don't have a chance. I'm older now, and more experienced. I'd say that levels the playing field to the odds I experienced before," Jem said easily. "I have the same odds as anyone else, like any other Hunger Games."
Plutarch sighed, once again disappointed, before abruptly switching topics. "What do you know about District Thirteen?" He asked. Jem wondered if he had heard right, which was becoming more and more of a common occurrence. "District Thirteen? We're they blown to bits, so much so that the land is uninhabitable?" Jem responsed, watching Plutarch closely for anything he could use to figure the guy out. Plutarch nodded, a hint of amusem*nt behind his eyes. "Yes, that is what everyone is told, isn't it?"
Jem's eyes narrowed, catching the true meaning. "What do you mean, what everyone is told?" He questioned warily.Was Thirteen not taken out? What else could have happened, then? "Well, what if what the Capitol said wasn't true? What if I told you that Thirteen is alive and well, and that revolution is brewing with Thirteen as the spearhead?" Plutarch asked. Jem fought to keep his surprise off his face at the information. "If you told me that, I might think that this is an elaborate Capitol ploy to see if I'm a traitor. That they're using such unbelievable information that I'd assume you're telling the truth because who would think of such a thing? Hypothetically, of course," Jem responsed, no longer being subtle.
Plutarch chuckled quietly at that. "Well, in this hypothetical sphere, I would tell you that I myself am apart of the revolution and am here to recruit you. I could, in theory, shown you a token of a revolution." Jem eyed him wearily, weighing the truth of his statement. "In the story we are creating, what would this symbol look like?" Jem asked, playing this game of true hypotheticals. Plutarch didn't say anything further, and instead just held out a coin for Jem to take. Jem took the coin cautiously, before looking it over for any identifying features.
It almost looked like a normal coin, one you would find in the jar on the counter of a shop, but it was obviously for the revolution once you looked any closer. The normal Panem eagle was replaced by a mockingjay, the symbol that Katniss wore into her games. Jem looked at the coin then Plutarch, coming to decision. "And, in theory, why would I join this revolution of yours? I wouldn't go for your 'morality' speech if I were you. It won't work on me," Jem said simply. Plutarch smiled, seeing that Jem had come to a conclusion.
"Oh, it's quite simple. We'd simply give you a way out of the games without killing your friends, and the very thing you're working for Snow for. You are dying, yes?" He said, no longer playing the hypothetical game. Jem once again hid his surprise. I shouldn't be surprised, they surely did their research before showing up, Jem thought bitterly. As Head Gamemaker, I'd be more surprised if he didn't know about my illness. "Hmmm, that's quite the offer isn't it?" Jem said noncommittally. He paused for effect, mostly just to mess with Plutarch. Couldn't let him get what he wanted too easily, right? "I suppose it would be beneficial for me overall. What would my job be?"
Plutarch hummed, satisfied with Jem's answer, before standing up to leave. "Nothing much. Until the Games start, your main job is information. I hear political pillow talk is lucrative in your field," He suggested, heading towards the door. Jem frowned. That would mean he'd have to give up some valuable skill learning sessions, but he could make due. "That won't be too hard. What about after the games start?" Jem asked. Plutarch paused in the doorway, turning back towards Jem. "You'll be keeping our dearest Mockingjay alive, of course."
