Tomorrow is the Catching Fire premiere so I’m making one last post for people who are going and might want to meet up. I’ll try and be there before noon, no idea how big the queue will be.
Anyway, come to my ask if you are going tomorrow! I can’t wait!
Guardians, Scott. If you were with me I could have told you what it meant. I could have warned you. Let me help you, Scott. Let’s help each other. You help me catch her and I’ll help you get your mother and Stiles’s father back.
What is that?
My boss told me it’s a poison and a cure. Which means you can use it. And it can be used against you.
The crunching hits my ear before I even know he’s beside me, and when I turn my head, Finnick Odair’s famous sea green eyes are only inches from mine. He pops a sugar cube in his mouth and leans against my horse.
“Hello, Katniss,” he says, as if we’ve known each other for years, when in fact we’ve never met.
“Hello, Finnick,” I say, just as casually, although I’m feeling uncomfortable at his closeness, especially since he’s got so much bare skin exposed.
“Want a sugar cube?” he says, offering his hand, which is piled high. “They’re supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They’ve got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I … well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick.”
I want you guys to forget everything you know about the Games. Last year was child’s play. This year, you’re dealing with all experienced killers.
"This is the 75th year of the Hunger Games. The tributes are to be reaped on the existing pool of victors."
The reaping takes only a minute. Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls’ reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch’s name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.
We are immediately marched into the Justice Building to find Head Peacekeeper Thread waiting for us. “New procedure,” he says with a smile. We’re ushered out the back door, into a car, and taken to the train station. There are no cameras on the platform, no crowd to send us on our way. Haymitch and Effie appear, escorted by guards. Peacekeepers hurry us all onto the train and slam the door. The wheels begin to turn.
And I’m left staring out the window, watching District 12 disappear, with all my good-byes still hanging on my lips.
I can’t help catching glimpses of us on the huge screens along the route, and we are not just beautiful, we are dark and powerful. No, more. We star-crossed lovers from District 12, who suffered so much and enjoyed so little the rewards of our victory, do not seek the fans’ favor, grace them with our smiles, or catch their kisses.
We are unforgiving.