Minichan

Part 1

So, suddenly there was a meteor and Kaitness Everdeen was killed in the capital. It was a tragic day for the people of the capital, and to come so suddenly after her joint-victory in the 74th Hunger Games it was quite a blow to her sponsors, likely Nike or Rebock. Peeta was, of course, conflicted as having never been able to fully resolve his feelings for her he found himself becoming anti-social and weird.
Peeta strode around his chamber as Woody implored him to calm down, “Hey, it's okay, how about I make you a drink.”
“I don't want a drink!” Peeta said as he paced. “I'll never be able to resolve my feelings for Kaitness and I'm feeling conflicted!”
“When Kaitness was killed by that meteor we were ALL feeling conflicted! Just let it go, bro. Forget about it,” Woody said. “The sponsors will find a new girl anyway. Gotta move on.”
“I don't want to meet anyone,” Peeta yelled, “I hate everyone! I hate you! I'll kill you!” He lunged across the room and jumped at Woody who splashed whiskey in Peetas eyes.
Peeta fell to the ground screaming and Woody jumped on top of him and pinned him to the floor. “Is this what you want, Peeta?” Woody yelled.
“I don't know,” he said feeling the weight of a man on his chest. He was struggling and wanting to be free, but he was aroused and didn't want it to stop. “Now I'm feeling even more conflicted,” he said through trembling lips.
Woody let Peeta up and they stood there looking at each other and awkwardly shuffling about.
“Ok, well, I'll see you at the next Hunger games then?” Woody asked.
“Uh, yes of course,” Peeta said as they fumbled to shake hands.
Woody started for the door and Peeta said, “I'll show you out.”
“No, no, it's fine,” he said making his way across the foyer. “I'll see you around,” he said as he shut the door mid sentence.
Peeta looked out the window across the capital and saw the hole in the earth where the meteor killed Kaitness and he broke down into tears.

The next day Peeta was awoken by a loud knocking on the door. He pulled himself from bed and dressed the lower half of his body. The knocking persisted till Peeta yanked the door open. “What do you want?”
A young man stood at attention in the door, “Sir, the Council of Sponsors requests you presence in the Hall of Councils as soon as you can make yourself available, sir.”
“I'll be along later.”
“Sir, I'm here to escort you back,” the man said opening his coat slightly to reveal a bit of a bronze pistol. “You have fifteen minutes to prepare.”
The man followed Peeta into his chamber and closed the door behind him.
“I don't like being bullied,” Peeta said as he made his way into the antechamber.
“I'm merely here for your safety, sir,” the man said.
Safety. As if that was a concern after what they'd already put him through. He finished his morning routine and the two departed for the Hall of Councils. The building is more of a complex of winding corridors than a building, but the two eventually came before a large set of doors. The man opened them and said, “they're waiting.”
Peeta entered the room, it was dark and lit by small lamps along the wall. On the far side a large screen filled the wall. A voice bid him welcome. Peeta stood before the screen and muttered, “what do you need of me?”
The screen filled with hundreds of faces and a cacophony of voices responded. Peeta said, “stop, slow down, I can't hear you all!”
A voice louder than the rest boomed, “now that Kaitness is dead you're the King of the Games! What will you do to ensure peace in our lands?”
Peeta thought about the question. People are starving in the Districts. There's disease, and people are uneducated and have no jobs. With very little assistance, and a high tax rate unhappiness abounds.
“Well,” Peeta began. “As king I can see how the problem is unresolvable. People are unhappy, that's the symptom we need to address. People are happy when they watch the games. Perhaps we should bring them,” he paused, “more games.”
The screen fell silent and Peeta expounded, “We will give them 150 days of games, and they will love me for it,” he said as he raised his fist into the air.
The screen erupted with faces and filled the room with rumbling voices, each shouting a discernible yes.

Part 2

News traveled fast. Before the end of the week all the Districts were aware that Katniss had been killed by a meteor. Memorials dotted the cities and people carried sorrow on their lips. To many she was a hero, especially to the “career girls” of District 4. Trained in the “old ways” the careers were fond of resourceful tactics and primitive weapons. To the girls Katniss represented everything they trained to be.
Angerla Browster was devastated when she heard the news about Katniss's death. Her father spoke in short even jabs when he told her. His face twisted with each tortured word, and at the end the grimace left on his face expressed hopelessness. He wept and Angerla closed herself alone in her bedroom.
“What am I doing?” she said staring into the room. In reality it was more gym than room. When she was young her mother began her training, “the regimen,” she called it, and the regimen always begins with physical exhaustion. When everything was lost, she could always count on it to clear her mind.
She looked to the punching bag, but started on the treadmill. A hard start into a dead run. Angerla was fast, she would often outrun the treadmill and gain enough momentum to jump from the front. She was doing that at eleven. Sweat began to dot Angerla's face as she ran, and her long blonde hair became damp from wiping her hair back. She ran gracefully. Her long lean body stretched with the fluid movements of a gazelle, almost leaping with every stride.
Her damp shirt was plastered to her chest, clinging to the form of a nubile, voluptuous young woman. Her chest heaved threatening to burst through the supple fabric with each deep breath. Her glistening thighs, burning with heat, threatened to give out. Close to collapse she ran for the front of the treadmill and kicked out for a mighty leap. Without enough speed she came down hard onto the treadmill, her feet flung up into the air behind her and she tumbled end over end before being spat out the back.
Her father heard the noise and found Angerla sulking on the floor. “You have to stop this,” he said. “You're almost 18. You don't have to wait to move on with your life!” He sat on the floor next to Angerla and she curled into his arms. “There's a year till the next games. Your last games. After that you'll never have to worry about it again.” It was not quite a lie, but her father didn't express his great dread over her final chance at life. “We can't change that Katniss was killed by a meteor, the only thing we can do is move on with our lives and honor her through how we live. Make this year the best year you've ever had. Live it for Katniss.” he said.
Angerla nodded her head against his arm to make him feel better. Inside she felt every bit as helpless as before.
“Good,” he said. Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” she lied, but her father believed her.

Dinner that evening was very quiet and left half eaten. Peeta, King of the Hunger Games had broadcast a special announcement to the Districts. He began by mourning the passing of Kaitness, who was killed by a meteor.
King Peeta spoke of her, “As you mourn I ask you to remember her bravery.” He asked for a moment of silence before continuing. “And as we recover from this tragic loss remember her courage.” He paused moment, looked deeply into the videocorder and said, “Remember her cunning.”
“And remember to enjoy,” he said, “the greatest spectacle you've ever witnessed on live TV. One hundred and Fifty straight days of Hunger games!”
Angerlas father shouted, “What!” nearly spitting half his ration on the floor.
King Peeta's smiling face loomed on the telescreen, “We'll be sending representative into each district to explain the details. Until then, try and stay excited,” he said thrusting his fists into the air and faded from the viewscreen.
A cold feeling of dread spread from the base of his neck into his head and down his spine. He knew before looking, Angerla wasn't seated at the table anymore. She got up. She left. She was gone. He looked for her just to confirm what he knew, the house was empty and he was left alone.

Part 3

The tide was high and ships had come in late. The docks were still full, by dusk the haul was usually weighed, packed in ice and sent out for the last train into the city, but the rush suggested the train was being delayed. Angerla hoped to find Quelor at the tavern near the docks.
“He's not here yet,” said a scruffy man behind the bar.
Angerla looked disappointed.
“Oh, don't worry, he will be. Everyone will be here tonight,” he said. “Have a seat,” he pointed to a stool. The man took a good look at Angerla and said, “I guess you've heard about this 'spectacle' the king has prepared. How old are you, 14, 15?”
“I'm 17,” she said as she sat down to wait.
“I see,” he said. “You take a tessera?”
“3 a year, till last year. Now 2,” she said.
“Damn, child. Let me get you a drink,” he shook his head and poured her a glass of warm sugared corn water. She sipped it and nodded.”
“It's nice,” she said.
“It's on the house,” he told her. “But don't tell anyone.”
Angerla smiled at him.
“Looks like your friend is here,” he said looking towards the door, “he may not know anything yet, you best let him know easy. He 18?”
“No,” she replied, “he's 19.”
The bartender wiped at the bar and held a frown on his face, “well, now, that's half the worry gone,” he smiled.
Quelor was much too tall for a fisherman, he almost had to stoop to get through doors. He's not made for fishing, he's made for fighting. He would never admit to losing a fight with Angerla, but many times through their youth he suffered relatively serious injuries at her hands. His father trained him to kill for the same reason Angerla was trained. Not to volunteer, but to have a chance to survive if they are reaped.
He removed his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He was very dark, even unusually dark for a fisherman. He always was dark. Dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes.
“If you get any more tan they'll mistake you for a run-a-way from District 11,” Angerla said sneaking up behind him.
Quelor laughed, surprised to see her, “and to what do I owe the honor of these outrageous insults?”
“There's been news from the capital,” Angerla said. She wasn't smiling.
“So serious all of the sudden,” Quelor said slowly dropping his smile.
“Can we sit? We should sit,” she said.
“What's wrong,” Quelor asked helping her to a table.
“Start at the beginning.”

Quelor walked Angerla up the path to her house. They walked from the tavern in silence most of the way. She stopped him and took his hand into hers and pressed her body against his.
“A representative from the capital will be arriving in the morning,” Angerla said. He cradled his arms around her and they kissed. Angerla ran her hands under his shirt and lifted it up over his body. His muscles flexed as he worked his way out of his shirt. Angerla pulled Quelor to the grass and placed his hand on her breast, her eyes begged him to take her.
Quelor gently wiped wisps of blonde from her face, and their lips charged with energy as they kissed. His dark, rough hands massaged her supple white flesh and they both lay naked, heaving and rolling, stifling their moans of ecstasy—and they giggled and played—and for a short time forgot all of their worry.
They lay together and saw the first rays of dawn bleeding into the sky.