The Fox

When I look out the window, it's cloudy and dark. It looks as if there's a storm coming, but then again, that’s nothing new in District 5. We are known in the Capitol as the district where the weather never changes, and I don't mean that in a positive way. However, this doesn't matter much to me as I don't really see daylight that much, anyway. There is always work to do in the laboratories of District 5, always another experiment to set up or a set of results to record, I think.

The thought makes me laugh, because I sound far too much like a bitter, old woman. Even though I’m sixteen, I’m just as weary.

The bell rings loudly, snapping me back into the real world. I head down the corridor, weaving through the hoard of lab workers. Most of them are my age or younger - we have to go to school in the evening and finish work at six – two hours earlier than everyone else. This is how District 5 is operated. District 11 has its orchards and fields, District 12 has its coal mines, and District 5 has its laboratories. The Capitol would have us believe we are at the heart of all important scientific experiments in Panem and that we are vital to the development of the country. Although it's more than my life is worth to voice my thoughts, I believe that I know differently. District 5 is where the Capitol government hides its uglier experiments that are not suitable for the sensitive eyes of its people, because, as we all know, nothing is worse to the citizens of the Capitol than ugliness.

I take my usual place in the corner of the dining hall – a huge square building with very tiny windows. They’re so high up that I can see only a small line of light. I sit alone, which is also usual for me. I have sat alone every evening since I was brought here from the Community Home two years ago. I suppose it's my own fault, really, as I have never put much effort into making friends.

I was here because I was 'chosen' by the Capitol's representatives in District 5, the garishly colored and hugely feared overseers of the labs. I still remember the day they arrived. A man and a woman like no one I had ever seen. She was tall and unnaturally thin, he was her complete opposite, short and fat. I had never seen a fat person before, and it almost repulsed me. They introduced themselves as Ector and Atria as they fiddled with their matching electric-blue hair and adjusted their clothes, preening like the vividly-colored birds that we test new cosmetics on in the labs. We were instructed to complete a set of tests that I found relatively easy, and I was shocked when most of the others didn't. They called me ‘gifted’ and said my intelligence was almost abnormal.

Rubbish, I thought. If I was that intelligent, I would have realized what was happening and answered the questions wrongly. Then I wouldn't be living this life.

I eat my food quickly. It is nutritious but tasteless, and, as normal, there is never quite enough of it to stop me from feeling hungry. I start to think about going to the schoolroom for yet another compulsory lecture on the history of Panem and the righteousness of the Capitol when the room suddenly goes quiet. The man I hate more than any other in the world walks into the room and heads for the stage at the front of the hall.

His name is Lucius Vorenus, and he is the governor of Laboratory 7. He is the man that murdered my father. But I could never prove it, and of course, even if I could, it would make little difference. No one would believe a frail sixteen-year-old girl like me.

I remember my parents – my father, anyway – surprisingly well, considering I was six years old when I last saw them. My last memory of my father, whom I idolized in a similar way to the manner in which his murderer idolizes the Capitol, is of him standing in the same lab where I work now, arguing with Ector over an experiment. I have never found out what the argument was about, but I suspect that a number of people who heard and saw too much have been given their lives only in exchange for their silence.

I had been hiding in one of the store cupboards, as my father had sent me to bed only moments before and, of course, expected that I stay there. I can still see it now, as if it had been filmed and now replays over and over in my head…

He left the room only to walk into Lucius and his 'assistants'. Lucius injected my father with a substance from a syringe he took from his pocket and my father fell to the ground instantly. He was dragged down another corridor by two of the assistants and I never saw him again. To my eternal shame, I watched this happen from my den in the cupboard without making a sound. Even as a small child I had sensed this was something I shouldn't know about and that to reveal my knowledge would have dire consequences.

My mother is entirely different story. To this day, I don’t know why my father married her. I suppose she must have been different once, but I can't see it. It's hard to think well of the woman who abandoned me in the Community Home because she did not want her reputation to be tainted by my father's disgrace as a result of bringing up his child. It didn't seem to occur to her that I was her child, too.

All I remember of her is a petite woman with vivid red hair and a permanent frown on her face. My father used to tell me that the frown was there because she was concentrating on her work far too often. Maybe this was true; she was successful in the end. She invented a potion that could make even the oldest, most wrinkled citizen of the Capitol's skin appear more youthful.

Now, Mercia Whitehouse is one of the best known and most respected scientists outside of the Capitol itself. She married again and even had more children, or so I heard on one of the many compulsory broadcasts I've been forced to watch. But I never saw her again.

I force myself back to the present as Lucius steps onto the platform and looks down on us with his cold, gray eyes.

"There will be no lessons today," he says. "Our esteemed guests from the Capitol have arrived slightly ahead of schedule and will need to be welcomed back in the appropriate way."

Of course! It's the reaping tomorrow. I had almost forgotten – almost. But I could never forget that the ‘appropriate’ way meant smiling and laughing while they prepare to send two more innocents to their deaths, all while eating more food than I see in a year.

Like every person in Panem, I have watched the Hunger Games and its associated ceremonies for my entire life. The Hunger Games have never been optional. What better way could there be for the Capitol to control the districts than making their children murder each other live on national television and forcing them to watch? It's certainly effective, I'll give them that much.

My name will be written on five slips of paper that go into the girls' reaping ball tomorrow. In that respect, I'm lucky. Many of the poorer children have no choice but to take out tesserae so that their families don't starve. In exchange for having their name written on another slip of paper, they are given a quantity of grain and oil for one person that is supposed to last them for the year. The bigger your family, the more times your name goes in the reaping ball – until the next reaping, when they have to go through the whole process again.

I have never needed tesserae. I was fed enough to stay alive at the Community Home and, now that I am useful to the Capitol, my food is more than adequate.

I'm starting to get nervous now, and I try to push all thoughts of tomorrow from my mind. The rational part of my brain is telling me that worrying about it will not make it go away, will not stop Icarus Holsworthy from drawing my name if that is what's meant to be. Every other part of me is repeating the same words over and over: "Please not me, please not me…"

Once the reaping is over for another year, I can convince myself that I wouldn't really care if I was chosen as one of District 5's two tributes. If I were to be selected, there would be around a ninety-five percent chance that I wouldn't even survive the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Away from the reaping day, that seems preferable to the one-hundred percent chance of dying as a glorified slave to the Capitol in this place at some unknown time in the future.

At this moment in time though, my only thought is that I really don't want to die.

I get up from my chair, knowing that I will not be one of the 'lucky ones’ who are chosen to wait on our ‘esteemed guests'. But as I walk towards the door, I remember exactly what I'm walking away from. When any important visitors arrive, they are provided with a feast in what we know as the Banquet Hall. I know from past experience that when the food and drink has been laid out on the enormous tables, all of the people who will be waiting on our guests will be called out of the room for a short discussion about the correct way to behave in front of people from the Capitol. In other words they will be told exactly what to say, which I also know from past experience is not a lot at all. More importantly, they are told what their fate will be if they disgrace the district.

During that short period of time, there is a completely unoccupied and unguarded room full of food. To me, this is an invitation to see if there's something there that they wouldn't notice was missing. I have done this on numerous occasions, and as a result, always cheered up when important people visited the laboratories, despite the circumstances. I never eat better than I do on the nights when there is a feast in the Banquet Hall. After all, stealing is an offense –punishable by death in every district in Panem – but, after all, you’re only punished if you're caught.

I leave the dining hall with a very different purpose in mind. In case anybody is watching me, I turn left towards the direction of offices, one of which belongs to my cousin, Cassie. I normally visit her, because she’s some of the only family I have left.

When I'm almost there, I double back and go in the direction of the Banquet Hall. It's complete chaos, with lots and lots of people running around making preparations in a very narrow corridor. I'm just that little bit too early. There is a small storage room next to the main room's side entrance and I sneak in there, quickly shutting the door behind me and pushing away the memories I have of hiding in a similar place ten years ago. There is nothing I can do now but wait.

I stand as close to the door as I can so I can be ready to run if somebody comes in. For some unknown reason, the door has a long mirror attached to the back of it and I study the reflection staring back at me. Although I'm sixteen, I could pass for as much as two or three years younger. Even as a young child I had always been small, and years of barely having enough to eat has ensured that I didn't grow much bigger. Unlike the children in the Capitol, I am probably the size of the average ten-year-old from District 1.

My hair is the auburn color of a fox's fur, and if I'm being honest with myself, this isn't the only fox-like aspect of my appearance. On the very few occasions that I have seen my reflection I have never thought myself as pretty.

Then I notice that everything has gone quiet outside, so I press my ear against the door to make sure everyone has left. When I'm certain I can't hear anything, I reach down and take off my shoes. Running into the hall sounding like a herd of elephants would be flat-out stupid.

I open the door slightly and slide through the small gap, poised to dive back in if I should hear somebody in the corridor. There is nobody, so I tiptoe down to the entrance door. They even left it open, just for me. The first time I did this, it had all seemed too good to be true. I had been so convinced it was a trap that it took at least an hour for my heart rate to return to normal.

I walk into the room and face the tables. They are all lined up against one wall and covered in dishes of all kinds of meats and fruits and vegetables. I take my already open bag from over my shoulder and put a few fruits from each of the dishes nearest to me inside it. The secret to this is to never take so much of one thing that it becomes noticeable. This is very difficult to stick to with the strawberries, though – they've always been my favorites.

I can tell from the voices next door that the not-offending-the-Capitol lecture will come to an end very soon, so I turn and leave as quickly as I can, grabbing a few rolls of bread as I go. I know that Cassie disapproves of this 'habit of stealing,' but I also know she would never dream of reporting me. Especially if I donate some of the food to her.

Cassie is my cousin on my father’s side. She's ten years older than me and, because my father was very close to his brother, I saw a lot of her when I was younger. I worshipped her and used to follow her everywhere, and she hated me for it – or she pretended to, anyway. I always knew she didn't, because although she often called me a variety of names, there had been trouble for any of the other children who tried to copy her. That is the sort of thing which stays in a person's mind, and I missed her when I was taken away. When I arrived back, though, I discovered that she was working here, doing research for the Capitol. Despite the age difference, she has been my only friend ever since.

"Cassiopeia!" I call as loudly as I dare, knowing how she hates her full name.

My father and uncle must have had a strange sense of humor. Knowing the high fashion in the Capitol was to give the children names that had been popular among the Romans, a civilization so ancient that little is known about them. They had deliberately given their daughters names from a rival ancient culture, the Greece. She is Cassiopeia, and my name is Lysandra. If my name wasn’t the only thing I have left to remember my father, I would hate my name just as much as my cousin hates hers.

The office door opens quickly and I am yanked roughly inside.

"What do you think you're doing, wandering around the corridors at this time of night?"

"Bringing you dinner," I reply.

I'm comforted to see the anger leave my cousin's face at the mention of food. Sitting beside her, I remove a pile of paperwork and scientific equipment from the desk while ignoring the accompanying "Lysa, don't touch that!" and replace it with my bag.

"Why do you do it?" she asks.

"If I'm going to the Capitol tomorrow, then I want to go on a full stomach."

"You won't be going to the Capitol. You only have five entries, there's virtually no chance."

"There's always a chance, Cass." I say, looking down at the half-bitten strawberry in my hand.

The nervous feeling in my stomach I'd pushed away earlier has returned and worsened, so I try to distract myself by unpacking the rest of the food. We eat in silence most of the time, though I make every effort to enjoy it despite the feeling of butterflies floating in my stomach. When we've both finished I stand up and go to leave, but Cassie grabs my wrist tightly. She's looking at me as if she's going to say something serious, but what actually comes out is far from that.

"Lysandra, what are you wearing to the reaping?"

I laugh at the absurdity of the question and reply by gesturing to the dark blue tunic and black trousers that I have on now. "I'm the disowned one, remember? I really don't have that much choice in the matter."

"You have the green tunic; the color suits you better than that blue does."

"Whatever you say; I should leave now," I blurt, suddenly wanting to be alone. "Good night, Cassie."

"Good night, Lysa," she replies quietly as I leave the room.

I walk to my bedroom with my shoes off again, not wanting to be caught in the corridors alone past curfew. Curfew is an unspoken rule rather than an official one. It's amazing how many people and experiments seem to disappear overnight and, as every sensible person in District 5 knows, seeing something you're not meant to see, however unintentionally, is a very unwise thing to do.

I reach the bedroom, which is literally a room with only a bed and very little else in it. I sit down on the narrow bed, though I don't feel tired. I never sleep the night before the reaping, but I know that the same can be said from almost every other child in Panem- the ones between the ages of twelve and eighteen, anyway. I sometimes wish that I'd been born in one of the districts that have Career Tributes. The Careers are children who are specifically trained for the Games, hated by the non-Career districts because they end so many of their children's lives but adored by their own. I can see the logic behind that admiration - there are always volunteers for the Games, and if their own children are chosen, they won't have to participate. If I was chosen, I could say with absolute certainty that nobody would volunteer for me.