A/N: HI! Hope you enjoy my newest fanfiction. I know foxes do not howl, but the ones that guard the district are genetically engineered to make warning sounds. So they do howl, and Foxface probably doesn't know any differently.

Please review! It would make my day - even if it's just "OK" or "Good" or "Terrible".

I don't own the Hunger Games. If I did, I would not be writing this.

"…Welcome, welcome, welcome. The time has come to select one young man and woman to have the honour of competing in the 74th Annual Hunger Games."

Silence. Not one person in the crowd says a word.

Then, as if on cue, one of the fox mutts that guard District Five's border lets out a bone chilling howl.

I am Finch, the girl tribute from District Five, and this is my story.

As I watched Song's perfectly manicured hand grope around in that reaping ball, my stomach flips over itself.

I just have this gut feeling that something is going to happen – and it's not going to be good for me.

Positive, Finch. Think positive, I say to myself, biting my lip. Blood seeps out. I don't care.

I don't have any friends of family; no one else to worry about. I've only drawn Tessera once this year, as usual, because it's mandatory in the orphanage.

Eight slips of paper have my name on them. Eight chances at a direct path to my death.

Then as Song takes the piece of paper out, I feel sick. And I know, before she even reads the name.

"Finch."

That's it. No last name. Just "Finch".

It makes me feel even more of a nobody than before. I was found on the orphanage doorstep in a white crate – the kind of crate they use to transport food to the Capitol, I learnt in a food project at school. Then some bright spark in the orphanage decided on the name Finch and I've been stuck with it ever since.

There's some confusion in the crowd, since next to no one knows who I am. I swallow. This is it.

Trying not to show how damn nervous I am, I step forward. The other fifteen year olds turn to see which unlucky soul has been reaped. I focus on the pebbled path through the middle of the groups.

"Up you come! No need to be afraid!" Song's Capitol accent is squeaky enough to deafen someone, I'm sure. I've never heard anyone, even a Capitolite, speak in such a high tone. It's like a mouse being tortured.

I've reached the stairs. I can feel the eyes of the twelve year olds on me. Some I know from the orphanage; the younger kids were always friendlier than the ones my age.

Song beckons with bright pink nails. I've never, ever, seen her in anything other than pink. This year, she is wearing a fluorescent pink jumpsuit with a matching pair of clunky pink platform shoes. Her false eyelashes, at least three inches long, and the grotesque pink cat ears protruding from her pink hair, would make anyone want to throw up.

When I reach the stage, I feel a pair of sharp, long nails dig into my shoulder blade.

"Do we have any volunteers?"

Uh. I may need a hearing aid about now.

Far off in the distance, another fox mutt howls. The wind carries it above the ugly gray factories – and for a second time this reaping, everyone is silent.

Of course there aren't any volunteers.

"Righto then!" Song claps her hands cheerfully and trots (yes, I can only described the movement she makes in those shoes trotting) over to the boy's reaping ball.

"Vincent Lakes."

This kid is obviously well known, because just about every head in the thirteen year olds section turns to him. He has to be the smallest one there and looks about ten with black hair and dark olive skin. And he looks oddly familiar.

Once Vincent is up on stage, we shake hands and are escorted by the Peacekeepers into the Justice Building.

The Justice Building is a large cement thing with the Capitol's emblem hanging over a pair of tear shaped doors. It's very ugly – even in comparison to the electricity plants, which smell weird and have pools of disgusting liquid around them.

Inside, the whole place is decked out in blue. And everything, from the lamps to the tapestries to the seating and tables, is velvet.

The Peacekeepers lead us – I mean force us– into separate rooms off the main hall. There's one hour to say goodbye to our loved ones. One hour left in District Five.

I sit down on a velvet couch and run my fingers through the material. I wonder how many other female tributes have done the same over the years. The thought sends a slight shiver down my spine and I withdraw my hand.

A good fifteen minutes passes – me staring at the eagle emblem on the wall – until the door swings open. Of course, it's Ms Raven, the orphanage director. It's her duty to see us off. The last orphanage kid to be reaped was some guy called James Lothian. He was the first to be killed in the bloodbath.

Ms Raven coughs slightly, "Ahem. Miss… Finch," here she falters, used to calling girls by their second names, "It is my duty to… ahem… wish you good luck and issue a farewell. After all, if you do not return to District Five, you will no longer be in the custody of the orphanage."

If I don't return to District Five.

Suddenly, the fatality of my predicament dawns on me. I can't win – anyone would know that. I'm not pretty, strong, fast, or charming. No one in their right mind would sponsor me.

Raven coughs again. I wonder if she's really got a cold or if it's just something she does to fill in an awkward moment. Probably the latter.

A few uncomfortable moments pass before she realizes that I'm not going to say anything and gets to her feet and walks briskly from the room, leaving me alone.

Alone is all I ever was.

Alone is all I ever will be as I walk to my death.