Greetings, this story actually wasn't supposed to be posted here... But it's here for now. When I can upload it on the account I made for it then I might post it there... I don't really know. It's all to do with emails and that wonderful business. Aaanyway, welcome! This is an idea that wouldn't leave my head, so it became fanfiction... Sorry about that.

Enjoy!

My father and I are in the mines of district twelve. I am shouting for him to run, to get out. To safety. But he ignores me and continues to hammer his chisel into the solid rock. I am screaming. Screaming his name, pointing to the way out, grabbing his arm and pulling him to safety. And he comes. But quickly I lose my grip on his arm and he falls, and everything blackens, silence closes in on me and I am screaming.

I sit, bolt upright in the comfortable bed in the training centre. The linen is soaked with sweat from yet another nightmare about my father's death in the mines. I grunt, angrily. I am angry at myself for having these dreams. They do nothing to help. They just make me even more tired than I was the previous day, and being the capitol's prisoner requires every ounce of energy I have.

I go to the window and judge from the light, and the giant clock on the side of a sky-high concrete building, that it has just passed one thirty in the morning. Grumbling, I stumble across my room and step into the shower after throwing my damp nightclothes down a hatch that I, long ago, assumed was for dirty clothes. Pulling my hair out of the ruined ponytail it had been in for my sleep, I slam my fist against a few of the buttons and breathe a sigh of relief followed by a muffled squeal due to a gentle flow of warm water followed by sharp spurts of ice cold. Once I have regained control of the shower I wash my hair and body then sit on the floor, under the running water.

I am spooked, I know that. I always am after dreams about my father's death. Not that I was even there for the event. I had been snapped up by the capitol a year beforehand and the news was delivered to me via Avox. An old, bald man, who had pissed off the capitol and so had had his tongue cut, brought me breakfast in bed along with a letter from my Mother detailing the horror that had befallen district twelve. I remember the look on his face, one of sincere pity and sorrow. He had known my father, known me even. Back when I was free- well, not free, no-one's free in Panem. But as free as you could get. He had run the sweetshop in the district, but he was caught badmouthing President Snow whilst some of the especially ruthless peacekeepers were on a stroll and was beaten up on the spot and taken away.

I cried alot that day. After I re-read the letter and it sunk in that not only my father, but Gale – my good friend had lost his father too, along with many other families, children, wives, mothers and fathers, I did exactly what I am doing now. I locked my bedroom door and sat on the shower floor whilst the warm jets beat down on me, strangely massaging my skin and soothing me. And then I cried. I can't remember how long I had cried for that day but I remember feeling so empty afterwards that all I wanted to do was eat and sleep. I chose sleep because there was a certain amount of effort involved in deciding what to eat and then asking for it.

That was the first time I dreamt about life back in district twelve, and six years later, now aged eighteen, I am still having them.

When I stand up I turn the water off, dry myself – my air dryers broke months ago, and I still haven't fixed them - and throw a fluffy dressing-gown over my shoulders. I quickly towel my messy blonde hair so it isn't dripping, and stride over to the bed. The curtains are open and I sit and watch the clock for three hours. Thinking over and over about my mother. My friends. District twelve. And the upcoming Hunger Games, that would bring yet another group of terrified children into my prison or 'The training centre' to give it its proper name. All eager to see their families again but very few of them willing to do what it takes for that to happen.

I think about my role in these games. 'Kill the Lure and allow for one extra tribute to walk free from the arena'. The 'Lure' or 'Adescare' – to give it it's proper name - being me.

This rule had only come about seven years ago, when I was taken from the Seam and dumped here, and I had to guess that this year would be its last. After all, there had never been anyone in the arena over the age of eighteen and starting now would cause confusion amongst the capitol residents. The ones that watch innocent children brutally murder each other as a source of entertainment. They aren't the smartest of people, but they act like a pack. So upsetting one means upsetting the rest, and President Snow likes to think that he already has enough on his hands.

Conveniently, this year happens to be the 75th Hunger Games or the third Quarter Quell. So I am pretty sure that whatever the twist is, it's going to be especially nasty. Both for me, and for the Districts. Especially Katniss Everdeen. Last year's co-winner along with her lover Peeta Mellark. Their final, risky, act of defiance, spearheaded by the girl, sure upset Snow and his lot and as far as the President can help it, her days are most certainly numbered.

There are, of course, some good things about the return of the games. I rarely see people, save for Avox's, and even when I do have company it's usually only when President Snow brings his friends-in-high-places with big video camera's over to impress them and to rub it in my face that I am still, very much, here as a slap in the face to the whole of twelve. They televise me sometimes, when things start to look on the rough side. Televise someone giving me a good slap round the face with a shoe whenever someone challenges a Peacekeeper. Televise me getting a whipping when someone is caught stealing, or caught 'loitering with intent' by the fence that surrounds the district. Once I've bruised up nicely, they might show a small video of me in some of the other districts. To remind them that if they begin to show even one sign of being a potential threat to the power of the Capitol this will happen. They'll take a small child and raise it in their charge. Throwing it into the arena annually, with twenty four freedom hungry others all desperate to get out alive at all costs. Use it as bait. My child's life or yours. It would sometimes cause arguments in twelve. I see it whenever I'm taken over to hang around at the back of the reaping ceremonies, I get taken to various Districts, so far I have attended reapings in Districts; four, eleven, three and, of course, twelve which I attend every other year . Families will fight in the square, wondering what will happen if their child turns against their 'Ally'. There are rarely allies in the arena. None that last anyway, except Mellark and Everdeen last year.

I enjoy the company of the other tributes. Most of them glance at me pitifully and give me apologetic grimaces as if they can't bring themselves to accept that in a few days they'll have the option to take my life in exchange for increasing their chances of survival... Well, if they catch me.

Seven years of the games have toughened me up. For the first two or three years I wouldn't touch anyone. I stayed, hidden near food and water until the others had killed each other off but now I let them come to me. And then I murder them. I don't even care anymore. I'm awful.

I'm good friends with the District twelve mentor Haymitch Abernathy. We get along so well I think because he's usually too drunk to even care who I kill, what I say or how I act. But, on the rare occasion when he's sober enough to think straight we still get on. We insult each other a lot, I think that's how we work.

Some when around six o' clock I fall asleep. Sending myself into one of my more pleasant dreams. I dream about Gale, and remember how happy I used to be whilst out hunting with him on occasions, teaching him how to tie snares the way I had been shown by my Grandfather before he had died. We were so young, I was nine when I first met Gale, he was ten. We met because he stopped one of the Peacekeepers from hitting me for peering through the fence surrounding the district, taking the slap himself. It wasn't a hard slap, but it still left a nasty purple bruise on his cheekbone for days. After that we began to talk, trust each other. And explored the woods a little bit outside the fence. I could throw a knife pretty accurately, and he was better than me at fixing up snares and learning different ways to lure and trap game.
Then I was taken and by chance got a while to say goodbye. And the only thing I could say to him was "Find a new hunter." How ridiculous must I have sounded? But gladly he managed it, Katniss Everdeen. And she must be one damn good hunter. Scary with a bow and arrow. I think the only reason I survived last year's games is because Gale must have said something to her beforehand about at least trying not to kill me. She was nice too, kind to me. She had that same flair as Haymitch did and that made her easier to talk to.

I recall searching for Gale's face at each District twelve, reaping I have peeped at since I was captured. He has grown over the years. Grown very tall indeed. It was hard to make a judgement from the back of the stage but I guessed that he had cleared six foot by the mere age of fourteen. He's also got very good looking. And I could see from the way in which some of the girls glanced scathingly at Katniss when he ran forward to pick up Primrose that alot of people had seen it too.

I am woken by a thudding at my door and I groggily drag myself up and over to unlock it. A silver haired Avox woman, obviously some traitor from the capitol on account of her green tinted skin and abnormally large eyes, stands there with a neatly enveloped letter. On the back pressed into the paper is the seal of the government and I groan. "Thanks" I say to the Avox and shoot her my trademark lop-sided grin as she leaves the room.

I walk to the middle of the room and throw the letter down onto the bed and move to the wardrobe, programming it to give me an outfit that I like – A thin shirt and some cropped tight trousers that remind me so much of my hunting clothes. I also bandage up my left hand tightly. I cut it yesterday whilst using the training rooms to practice my one signature skill – sword fighting. I am damn handy with a sword. I'm not supposed to use the rooms at all, but no-one can tell on me. It would be an awful effort for an Avox, and they're all fond of me anyway.

Quickly I check my appearance in the mirror and laugh. My hair is all flat on one side and on the other, its usual not quite curly, not quite straight mess. Due to the fact that I had fallen asleep in such a strange position with my hair still damp. I walk to the bathroom and place my hand on the pad that sends a current through my hair to tame it and then walk over to the mouthpiece in the corner of the room.

I pause for a while to recall what Effie Trinket told me that delicious food was last time she was here... Pi..Pisa..Piz... "Pizza?" I question myself out loud, but I turn out to be correct. I take the steaming hot dish over to my bed and reluctantly read the front of the envelope. I'm expecting the familiar handwriting of President Snow or possibly Seneca Crane. Snow likes to write to me, just to 'keep up' with what I'm doing. Really he just does it to mock me, and drop 'subtle' hints as to what is going on in District twelve in my absence. Crane likes to write to hint to me about upcoming arena's. Whether this is because he is trying to intimidate me or help me I don't know. I'm mostly indifferent. But this writing is new to me.

Bet Roburn
The training centre

That's all that's on the front of the envelope, so I decide to go ahead and open it.

Miss Roburn,

I understand that you may have been expecting the usual letter from either President Snow or the late Seneca Crane. However, the President is a very busy man, as I am sure you will understand.
I write to introduce myself, but also to remind you that the reading of the card shall be televised tonight and it is obligatory that you watch.
You shall also be attending the reaping this year in your old District, District twelve.

My regards,

Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker.

I read the letter through again. 'The late Seneca Crane' ... 'Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker'

My stomach squirms. Crane is dead. And it's pretty obvious why. He let Everdeen and Mellark live last year instead of blowing them to smithereens. Maybe it has caused some unrest in the Districts, a long awaited uprising maybe? I shake my head. I'm just being hopeful. None of the Districts are strong enough to rise against the Peacekeepers. Security will have been tightened, now I come to think of it. I can't believe I have missed this. Katniss Everdeen is the first person to ever play the games on anyone's terms but the Gamemaker's, and pulling those berries, showing that final act of refusal, surely would have been enough to spark something. After all, she was... is... The girl on fire.