Author's Note: This story is about a character who intrigued me greatly despite only appearing in one small scene of The Hunger Games. If you are reading this story, I assume that you have already read this book. Events will naturally mirror those described in the canon. If you have not read the sequel, Catching Fire, I strongly recommend that you do so prior to reading this fic. This story features two characters which are introduced in the second book, and the epilogue takes place about midway through that story, so it will spoil you significantly.

Disclaimer: I cannot express how much I do not own any of this. The Hunger Games and the characters within belong to Suzanne Collins. I have borrowed the title of this fiction from a chapter in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which belongs to JK Rowling. This story is intended to be a companion piece to the fanfics "A Fox's View" and "Love is a Battlefield" by Caisha702, as well as "Cripple" by be-nice-to-nerds, all of which can be found on this website. Many of the "missing moments" scenes (as well as the non-canon names outside of District 3) are borrowed from these stories (and associated one-shots) in order to generate continuity. Many thanks to Caisha and BNTN for their great stories which inspired me to write this, and for their support in the writing process!


Part I

"THE IDEA"

Chapter 1

When my alarm clock goes off at precisely six o'clock in the morning, I instantly snap awake. This is actually a bit of a first for me. Normally at this point, I would be hitting the snooze button, and perhaps contemplating how to rewire the clock so it sends out a signal that slows down all the clocks at my school so I can get an extra hour of sleep. Until today, school was undoubtedly the worst part of my life – six hours of complete boredom until I could race back to the Shop and the only activity that made my life worthwhile. But today is different. Today is Reaping Day.

I sit up in my bed and take a look around my room. This might be the very last time I ever wake up in this place, so I try to commit it to memory. My bedroom is not particularly large, but it is filled with all the basic essentials. I even have an ancient television on a shelf in the corner. In many places, that would be an unheard-of luxury, but seeing as I rescued it from the junkyard and rebuilt the whole thing myself… I look out the window next to my desk. The early morning light illuminates the dull-grey urban jungle of the factories that make up District 3. It's an altogether depressing view from the second floor.

Since before I was born, my family has run an electronics-repair shop that occupies most of the first floor of our residence. When he was young, my father worked in one of the factories; I think it produced fancy coffee machines or something similar that only people in the Capitol could afford, unless you were very rich. And in District 3, it would be easier to find a rainforest than a very rich person – past Hunger Games victors excluded. Anyways, after he met my mother, he quit his job and started up the Shop, and they made out pretty well. My father always joked that one of the great ironies of life was that while everything in Panem was manufactured in District 3, there was never anyone around to fix something when it broke down. He would only say it in private, of course. Any public mention of dissatisfaction with the quality of life in District 3 could get you a whipping by the Peacekeepers at the very least. You might even be accused of sedition and end up very, very dead.

Business has always been fairly good; the workshop downstairs is continually filled with a maze of electronic components and projects in progress. So it should come as no surprise that my brothers and I played with circuit boards and wires almost before we could walk. My brothers are pretty good with electronics, but they never shared the same passion for it that I have. I've always loved the challenge of solving the puzzle, figuring out the function of each component and finding the solution to the problem. By the age of eight, I was finishing projects as fast as my father. But there was always another unfinished project, so we usually work late into the night.

Which is why, on a normal day, my mother would literally have to drag me out of bed in order for me to get up. Today, however, I'm filled with a nervous energy that makes further sleep impossible.

The door opens slightly, and I see the face of my twin brother Mattel peeking into the room.

"You up already?" he whispers.

I can see reflected in his eyes the same fear that infuses every ounce of my being. We aren't even identical twins, but practically everyone in District 3 has the same black hair and ashy skin. Since we happen to be brothers of the exact same age, the resemblance is even closer. Add in the fact that we're both abnormally small even by District 3 standards, and one can easily see why everyone just assumes we're identical.

"Yeah," I respond.

"Big day, huh."

"Big day."

Neither of us is particularly loquacious, but we don't really need to be. Matt is undoubtedly my best friend – at least, the best friend that is my age. I have to rank my father up there too, but no matter how much we bond over fixing radios, there's a limit due to the presence of the father/son relationship. But Matt and are so close we each can almost always tell what the other is thinking based on body language. So while Matt simply said "Big day, huh," I interpret it as "This is the day we've been dreading for years and I'm scared out of my mind." So I hop over and give him a hug.

Because today will be our first Reaping. Well, technically it is our fourth, but today will be the first time that Matt and I are actually in danger of going to the Capitol if either of our names is drawn. Our older brother, Intel, had promised Matt and me that if we were ever drawn, he would volunteer in our place. He's strong and athletic, the complete opposite of us. He spent all his free time training informally so he could compete against the so called "Career Tributes" of Districts 1, 2, and 4, if someone in our family was unlucky enough to be drawn at a Reaping. But this year, he turned nineteen, and so he is no longer eligible for the Hunger Games. For so many children in Panem, turning nineteen is a tremendous relief. But for my family, it is the start of a four-year period in which having one of our names drawn will mean certain death for either my brother or me. This year, there will be eight slips of paper in the lottery that will have my family's name on it; four for my brother and four for me.

Our family has always been pretty well-off financially. Not rich, but we've never struggled to survive. We have never had to sign up for tesserae, so our only entries in the lottery were the minimum requirements: when you turn twelve, your name is entered into the Reaping once. Each year after that, your name gets entered an additional time, like some sort of sick birthday present from the Capitol. Congratulations for living for another year, now we're going to increase your chances of dying before adulthood. At the age of fifteen, my brother and I each have our names entered four times. Still, we're about as safe as we can possibly be. The poorer children in our District who have been forced to survive by buying tesserae – a supply of grain and oil for the price of an additional entry in the lottery – easily have their names on four or five times the number of slips of paper than I do. But even having a single entry is enough to make it a nerve-wracking ordeal.

For the past seven years, of course, the ordeal has been dealing with the potential of losing Intel to the Games. He would have had a better chance than average, but the harsh reality is that even the best trained Careers have less than a ten percent chance of survival. After all, only one person out of twenty four can walk out of the arena alive. So the fear has grown each year as three more slips of paper with our family's name would be added to the lottery. Last year was the worst, with Intel having a whopping 13 chances to end up in the Games.

My family sits down for breakfast in complete silence. In the past, this would be broken by my mother reminding Intel not to volunteer for anyone other than Mattel and me. I know she's just paranoid; my brother wasn't suicidal, he simply believed in being prepared. But I can understand her worry, since Intel attended every single one of Beetee's "motivational speeches". It's clear that our district's former champion has dreams of turning District 3 into a fourth Career district. Occasionally someone would be deluded into thinking they have a chance and volunteer, and they'd inevitably get slaughtered on the first day. Our last victory was sixteen years ago. Intel would scare my mother by dissecting the tributes before the Games and then discussing strategies with us while children died live on television. And then my mother and Intel would argue and she would say terrible things about the Capitol, things which could never be said outside the walls of our home.

On a typical Reaping Day, the conversation would go something like this:

"Intel…"

"I know, Mom."

"I know you've promised to volunteer for your brothers, but don't you dare volunteer for someone outside of this family."

"You know I won't."

"No, I really don't know. Not with the way you listen to that horrible man's nonsense."

"Beetee's not so bad."

"Yes, he is. Trying to get all you young kids to train. Filling your heads with thoughts of fame and money. And for what? Just so he can relive his glory days?"

"Mom, that's totally unfair. No matter what, two kids have to go every year. Beetee just wants them to have a fair chance, that's all."

"'Fair?' You call one in twenty-four 'fair?'"

"It's better than what we usually have."

"And you're willing to throw away your life just because of a slightly better chance?"

"I keep telling you, Mom. I don't want to go to the Games. I'll only volunteer if Max or Matt get chosen, I promise."

Today, however, my mother has nothing to say to us. Mattel and I would never dream of volunteering. Our approach has always been the polar opposite from Intel: avoid thinking about it as much as possible, survive the next four Reapings, and move on with our lives.

After breakfast, Mattel and I get dressed in the same matching shirts and suits that we always wear to Reapings and other special occasions – everyone's expected to be dressed in their finest in case they get chosen, so as to not reflect badly on the whole district in front of all of Panem. More often than not, it's the same set of clothes that they get buried in, after their bodies return in plain wooden boxes from the Capitol.

As always, our family travels together to the Reaping. Our house is located in a section of District 3 known as the Belt, a tight cluster of merchant shops built around the main thoroughfares between the Processing Center and the train station. In District 3, everything that is manufactured in the factories – from music players to cars to hovercraft parts – must first go to the Processing Center to be cataloged before being shipped to the train station for delivery to the Capitol. Since everything must pass through the Belt, it's a prime location for merchants to earn business.

It takes about an hour to get to the Main Square of District 3 from our home, so we arrive a little before nine o'clock. There's still more than thirty minutes until the Reaping starts, but the square is already almost full. It may be Tuesday morning, but there is no school and all the factories are closed. By law every citizen of the district must attend the Reaping, and most are already here. Once we sign in as a family with eligible children, the Peacekeepers allow us into the square – the population of District 3 is far too large to all fit, so if you do not have an eligible child, you have to watch from the adjacent streets on giant screens. When we get as far as we can go as a family, we stop and join our hands in a circle for a brief prayer, the same one have said each of the past seven years. "May the odds be ever in our family's favor," my father says. That's all. Our tiny act of rebellion: using the Capitol's slogan for the Games as a prayer to avoid them.

Mattel and I leave the other three members of our family and make our way to the section for the fifteen-year-olds. I glance back at my older brother, and Intel has a look on his face that clearly shows that he wishes there was a section for nineteen-year-olds. But he can't protect us any more.

When we reach the enclosure, we spot one of our friends from school, Haier Saito. He greets us cheerfully, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"What's up, Runts?"

"Hi, Hai… er," my brother responds.

It's the usual daily banter, that almost always involves Haier making fun of our small stature, and us making puns based on his name.

"It's the happiest day of the year! Zo-em-gee, aren't you excited?" he says for the benefit of the dozens of camera crews positioned all around the square. I almost smile at his use of a District 3 slang term – no one knows how the word was invented, but it's generally used to express surprise or excitement.

In a lower voice meant only for us, Haier adds, "Only three more Reapings after this."

Such is life in Panem. Even minutes from a lottery that will send two children to almost certain death, we're expected to celebrate like it's the best day of the year. But Haier's more accustomed to the pressure. After all, he's been truly at risk three previous times. Matt and I just stay silent as the minutes tick down and the tension builds. We hold hands, like a pair of five year olds crossing the street.

At 9:20, Googol Gates, the mayor of District 3, leads a procession onto the stage. He's followed by Verity Phillips, the District 3 escort from the Capitol with her skin dyed bubblegum pink, and finally our three surviving former Games victors, Arvee, Beetee and Wiress. They take seats behind the podium and the glass jars holding the entries of all the District 3 children. Ten minutes to go.

At exactly 9:30, Mayor Gates steps up to the podium and reads the same speech that every mayor in all of Panem reads every year: the history of Panem, the rebellion of the Districts, and the Treaty of Treason that produced the Hunger Games. Then he lists District 3's four past winners, and now Verity Phillips is stepping up to the podium and bubbling in her Capitol accent, "Happy Hunger Games everybody! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Then, like she has done every year since I can remember, she addresses the crowd like we are a group of kindergarteners, and tries to get us to play a game of 'Which Gender Should Go First?'

"Who thinks it the boys should go first this year? Who thinks it should be the girls? I can't hear you! Boys? Girls?"

This goes on for several minutes until the crowd has faked enough enthusiasm to satisfy Verity. For us potential tributes, it just prolongs the agony of waiting. Finally she decides that the crowd has chosen the boys to go first, and reaches into the jar holding the boys' names.

Not me or Matt, I have time to think once before she pulls out the slip of paper.

"Maxell Dyson!"

No, no, no, no, no!


A/N: If you're reading this, let me know what you think! This is my first foray into fanfiction so feedback is appreciated. FYI: I have a draft of the whole story already written out, so all the major events are pretty much planned out. But I'm editing as I go, so everything is certainly open to improvement.