A/N: Here's my new fic, WEAK. It's exploring a piece of canon that I've been curious about for a while, although I won't tell you immediately what it is . This is in the same universe as my other fic, THE THIRD QUARTER QUELL, which is still in progress. If you enjoy this fic, I hope you'll go check that one out, as I think it is rather good (but then I would, wouldn't I?).

Obligatory disclaimer: I do not now, nor will I ever own any part of THE HUNGER GAMES, which is the sole property of Suzanne Collins. Bless her heart.

CHAPTER ONE – DAY OF THE DREAD

If I don't steady my fingers, I'm going to lose one. If I lose my fingers, I'll have nothing left. No way to earn money. No way to live.

Sometimes I think about it. How could you not, if you were me? When your life is nothing, and there's nothing on the horizon, who's to say death wouldn't be better?

But not a slow, starving death. If I go out voluntarily, I'm throwing myself right into the machinery. Cock up everything for days to come. Become a legend, someone they whisper about.

Well, there's the way I know I will go someday. The horrible, slow death of my parents. Why shouldn't I take myself out early? I'm living under a death sentence anyway. It will be better this way, or at least that's what I tell myself every day as I wake up. But I can't do it. I can't bring myself to do it. On top of everything else, I'm weak. A coward.

The factory bell clangs out, surprising me out of my morbid reverie. It's time to go. Time for the reaping. Technically, Reaping Day is supposed to be a holiday. We're not supposed to have to work, and we're supposed to be celebrating. "Supposed to" being the operative term. District 9 does neither. We get out three hours early, hours spent entirely initially in silence and dread, and then, once it's over, relief mixed with horror.

I trudge out of the factory, the tail end of a stream of people, all heading to the town square. In other districts, even the poorer districts like 11 and 12, people get dressed up for the reaping. Not here. We simply walk straight from the factory to the reaping, wearing exactly what we already have on: our stained, torn work clothes. The adults file off to the side, the children into their designated slots.

My fingers are still trembling. They never stop trembling. Sometimes I wonder if the Shakes in my fingers will spread to my whole body, if I will shake apart like a faulty grain bag some day. If I'll die like my mother, twitching in the street. But I don't really have to wonder, do I? Everyone knows the Shakes can't be cured. Not in District 9 anyway.

Around me, the other 14s whisper and talk amongst themselves. Never happily. Never loudly. But at least they have someone to talk to, to worry with and over. They have friends. I never have. Everyone around me avoids my eyes, looks instead at my shaking hands. Who wants to be friends with the walking corpse?

Ahead of me, I see some of the upperclass jackanapes have brought wine with them, are already drunk. I hope they get reaped and choke on their own liquor.

But they won't. No, it will only be poor factory workers like me who get reaped, just like every other year. Factory workers who have to take out tesserae every year, just to survive. What will I do when I turn 18? I'll no longer be at risk for the Games, but I won't be able to take out tesserae any more, either.

Maybe that's when I'll do it.

It's a comforting thought, one that warms me on this chilly gray day. I can always die.

In front of me, the usual macabre Reaping Day spectacle is unfolding. Our Mayor reads the Treaty and talks about the Dark Days. Then our escort, Mimi, a large, loud, brash woman climbs onto the stage. Other districts get silly but harmless escorts. Not District 9. Just one more reason why we're the unluckiest district in Panem. Mimi is famous for her mismatched, incredibly bright outfits. Even the announcers on the Reaping Day broadcast mock her. Today she's got white blonde curly hair that stands at least a foot around her head in all directions, with a lime green, too tight leotard, pink and black striped tights, electric blue heels, and deep red lips. She's the brightest thing to ever happen in District 9. She's grotesque.

"Helloooooooooo, District 9!" she trumpets. "Who's ready for the reapinggggggggggg?!" Does she expect applause? She shouldn't, not after all these years. But she never gives up.

"Allllllllll righty then, folks, let's get right down to it! Skip all the boring small talk, amiright?" she looks around hopefully, but no one moves. Her smile still plastered onto her face, she fishes around in the girls' bowl for a name, finally pulling one out. "Aviva Miller, come on dowwwwwn!"

There's a disturbance in the 16s section and a girl emerges, walking slowly toward the stage. Her back is painfully upright and she keeps her head high, looking at no one. Her hair, the color of black rye, hangs straight all the way to the middle of her back, and it swings gently as she walks.

She stands on the stage, still not making eye contact as Mimi roots around in the boys' bowl for another name.

Please don't be me. I may die, I may kill myself, but I don't want to go into that arena. I don't want all of Panem to see my weakness.

Mimi triumphantly pulls out a slip of paper. She calls out a name. It takes a moment for everything to sink in.

She's called out the name Dagan Beresford.

She's called out my name.

My death sentence just got shorter.