A:N
Hi guys :) Just so you know, this is an AU fic. (The basis of the AU being that there is a Quell every five years)
And yes, this is an Everlark fic. And, no, Amaryllis and Apollo will not be getting together in this fanfiction. That's weird. They're thirteen. You creep.
By the way, this will be a series of three fics, each following the book's plots. Amaryllis and co will get older as the fanfics progress. (Also, the actual Quarter Quell will take place five years after this, opposed to one year as it is in the actual books)
Happy reading, and please review! ^U^

I clench my fists, staring at the neck of the girl in front of me. It is the day of the Reaping, the second I've been through. Effie Trinket titters about the stage in her ridiculous clothing and horrid wig, the stark white paint slathered all over her face paired with the bright lipstick and eye shadow making her look horrendous. How could anyone think that attractive?

I've never understood the Capitol. There is only one thing I know I feel for it.

Hatred.

Seething, cold hatred. Excessive hatred for a girl of only thirteen years, such as myself. But, it's one of the only emotions I feel. Ever since mum and dad died, three years ago, it's either been hatred or emptiness. Numbness.

I'd choose hatred any day. Numbness can't keep a girl and her big sister alive in District 12.

Beside me stands Primrose Everdeen, one of the only faces I can recognize. I feel a sudden pang at her pale complexion, at the dark rings under her eyes. I've been, well, I suppose one could call us friends, with Prim for years. Ever since her and her mother saved Lily, my sister who was sickly ill, I have been in their debt.

Katniss, Prim's older sister, tried to teach me how to shoot once. I didn't pick it up very well. She tries to act friendly, but I know she thinks I'm hopeless. What she doesn't know about is my certain… affinity, let's say, for knives. And a brush. But I doubt that painting pretty pictures is going to get me very far in life.

In fact, I know only one other artist in 12. His name is Peeta. Him and Prim and, yes, occasionally Katniss, are the only people I've ever been able call friends with the title ringing true. They don't seem frightened of me, as everyone else is. I used to hate that too, being an outcast. I just don't care anymore. I'm different, and I've accepted that.

I think, looking at the big picture, that it's my being strangely intellectual that scares people off. Maybe the fact that I have talked to exactly four people this year has something to do with it. I'm not shy, as such. More… wary. My father always used to call my his 'Little Flower', and not because I am a weakling. According to him, I was like the buds of the flower I was named after. Amaryllis. At first, I was encased in a hard shell, closed off from the world. Then, as time went on, I emerged into a beautiful flower, bright and cheery.

The sad thing is, I used to be. I used to be kind and caring. Maybe even a little chirpy. I used to wear my hair in twin braids, tied at the end with little red ribbons. Sometimes I would find an Amaryllis in the meadow and weave it into my hair. No longer. The last amaryllis flower I saw I burned. It brought back too many memories.

Ah, memories. My worse enemy.

Prim smiles at me, and I notice that her eyes are red and puffy. I don't smile back. But I do take her hand in mine and give it a reassuring squeeze. The odds are in her favour. And mine, really. I don't have any reason to sign up for a tesserae. I'm allergic to wheat, and my sister is too. We make a good enough living at the Hob with Lily selling the clothes she makes and me selling the various mechanical knick-knacks I come up with and occasionally, when I travel into the woods beyond the district, I'll have herbs to trade with Mrs Everdeen in exchange for some food. Greasy Sae pretty much has us covered in that aspect, though. She never asks for much, as she knew our mother.

"It'll be alright," I whisper to Prim, my voice taking on a tender tone almost alien to me. "The odds are in our favour. We won't go in."

She nods, clearly not convinced. We won't go in. We can't. Though, there's more of a chance this year, as it's a Quell year. Mum always used to tell me about when the Games, the Hunger Games, only had Quarter Quells; one every twenty five years. Then, roughly ten years before I was born, some genius decided that there would in fact be a Quell every five years. This year, twice the number of tributes would go in. At least it's not as bad as the last one. That was horrid to watch. That year, the reaping ages ranged from eight to twenty instead of twelve to eighteen. When I asked about the actual Quarter Quells, the ones that take place every twenty five years, she only replied with a smile, "They're even Quellier Quells."

I supposed that meant that the stakes were higher. The situations direr.

Effie Trinket is at the front of the stage, chittering away excitedly. Oh, how I wish I could throttle her.

With a bright exclamation of, "Ladies first!", she shoves her hand into the Reaping Ball. The whole crowd goes silent; they're hoping it isn't their name that's called. I don't bother hoping. If I go in, I die. If I don't, well, I'll probably still die. That's how it works here in the Seam, when you're a young girl who knows how to do nothing but hold a paintbrush, throw a knife and fiddle with electronics.

The name the woman calls out makes my heart stop.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

Prim drops my hand and slowly makes her way through the crowd, her face drained of all colour. Then Katniss is at the front of the stage, screaming something. Then she's on stage. Then Haymitch, our only victor, is ranting about how she's got more spunk then us. Or perhaps the Capitol. Either way, he's most likely correct.

I tune out, part horrified that it is one of my few friends who is chosen, and part relieved that it's not me. Then I remember. This is a Quell, so we still have another female tribute to go.

Surely it won't be me.

Effie has attempted to right her pink wig, though it is still noticeably lopsided. With too much vive, she trots to the front again, next to the Reaping Ball.

"Anyway, it's time to pick our second female tribute!" she exclaims, grinning. Her bounciness makes me sick to the stomach. She's standing on a stage in front of a thousand starved children, excited about sending four of them to their deaths. And one of them is my friend.

The Capitol woman draws a slip of paper out of the ball, and I swallow nervously. No. It won't be me. I'm one in a thousand. I try to find Lily in the sea of faces, but I can't spot her. Unlike me, she has the Seam colouring; olive skin, dark hair and grey eyes. She can fit in. I'm easily spotted by my milky-white skin and my eyes, which aren't a dissimilar shade of orange to my boy-short hair.

"The second female tribute is," Effie starts, making the air thick with tension. I feel my heart constrict for fear that it will be Lily, even though I feel next-to-no affection for her. But it isn't.

Effie coughs, then starts again, ditching the pause, thankfully.

"The second female tribute is Amaryllis…" she hesitates at my surname.

I barge forwards, knocking everyone in front of me out of my way. As I reach the steps I shout, so that all who are there will hear me, "Nightlock. My name is Amaryllis Nightlock!"

I hate it when people hesitate at my surname like that. It's the only thing I have left of my father. I know that nightlock is also an incredibly poisonous berry, but still. When it's a girl's name, you just need to say it.

Nobody knows me. Nobody cares about me. So nobody volunteers for me as I stride to my place next to Katniss. I find Lily easily this time and look her in the eyes. I do not expect to find any sort of sadness in them. And I don't. She simply looks at me with her unchanging cold expression.

Despite my vowing not to care, it stings. It stings a lot.

Katniss shoots me a look of deep regret, but my face remains impassive, as always. I very rarely show emotion. I want to, but I can't. I want to hug her and tell her it's okay, but I can't. It's what dad trained me for. He trained me to be a soldier from the age of five. I was never 'darling' or 'Ammi'. I was only ever, 'Soldier Nightlock'. Even at home. I used to question it, as all the other girls my age were called 'sweetheart' or something of the sort. Mum only ever replied with a sad smile, "Daddy grew up in a place different to ours. He loves you very much, just like he does Lily… He just shows it in a different way."

And besides, if I tell her that it's all okay, I'd be lying. It's not okay. There's a chance for Katniss, who's strong and canny. But for me… No. No chance at all.

Effie is on to the male tributes, now. She's smiling her unsettling pink grin and fishing slip of paper out of the male Reaping Ball, looking ecstatic.

"Peeta Mellark!" she calls out to the crowd, and I spot him. He's stark white and slowly walking to the stage, his head bowed.

It's the best I can do to stifle a shriek of fury.

Two of my three friends, chosen for the Hunger Games. Me, chosen for the Hunger Games. Fantastic. Brilliant. Just dandy.

Nobody volunteers for Peeta, either. He just walks dejectedly up onto the stage, his eyes downcast. I'm almost certain I see a tear fall down his cheek. This just makes me hate the Capitol even more. I know this boy, and he's strong and resilient. He's… good. And now, he's going to have to push all of that humanity away and kill someone. Slaughter another child. Perhaps me. Perhaps Katniss.

"The second male tribute is," Effie chirps, unfolding another slip, "Alec Andaren!"

A very small and very frail looking boy begins to make his way through the sea of saddened faces. He's even smaller than I am. If I didn't know any better, I'd think him around nine.

Before anyone can take a proper look at him, a boy who looks almost exactly like him, but is a bit bigger, steps out. He's tall. Maybe as tall as Peeta. But he doesn't look very old, facially.

"I volunteer as tribute!" he shouted, projecting his voice so that everyone could hear him. The smaller boy, Alec, burst into tears and tried to yank him back into the crowd, but he simply detached himself with a disdainful face.

"And what is your name?" Effie asks, surprise and delight plain on her horrifying, painty face, "Was that your brother?"

"Yes," the boy says quietly, his eyes flickering to me. He looks at me as he talks, but is plainly addressing Effie. Perhaps he doesn't want to look at her. I don't, either. "My name is Apollo Andaren."

I've never heard his name, nor interacted with him, but it saddens me to know that he will probably die. Just like me. He stands next to Peeta, stoic and unmoving, as Haymitch and Effie make their little speeches. At the end, when I can tell that all of the cameras are focused on us, I reach over and take Katniss' hand. Instead of shaking hands, which is the common protocol, I take Apollo's hand and he links his with Peeta's. It's probably be considered an act of rebellion, but we move to the front of the stage, pushing Effie and Haymitch out of the way.

The population on District 12 stays silent. But we receive a larger form of respect in the silence, as people start to press three fingers to their lips, then raise them over their heads. It's a sign of respect. It's a sign of thanks.

The Peacekeepers quickly usher us off stage into the holding rooms, where we will say our farewells. But nothing can change what we just did. I feel the closest I have to happiness for a long time. It was a small thing, easily looked past. But I defied the Capitol. Just for a moment, but I did it. I allow myself a small smile, and it makes my cheeks feel strange. Apollo looks at me with an eyebrow raised.

"What?" I ask, raising an eyebrow back.

"How old are you?"

I scowl, my trademark expression, and huff, "I'm thirteen. I don't see how it's any of your business, though."

He shrugs and walks into his holding room. I scowl at his back and then at the door until a Peacekeeper gets fed up with my constant scowling and pulls me into my own holding room. I don't want to go in there, though. I know I'll just sit there aimlessly, twiddling my thumbs, until the others are done. Nobody cares about me, except maybe Lily. But she wouldn't drag herself here just to say goodbye to me. I try not to blame her, but I do.

It's been ages. As I suspected, not a soul has come to say their farewells. I sigh, smoothing back my short ruddy hair. But then I hear a knock at the door, and a girl walks in. From the look of her, I'd guess she's about eighteen. Waving away the Peacekeeper, she sits down next to me.

"I was sent by my mother," the girl starts, looking at me intently. "Janice. You sell her electronics to use for her inventions. She… She wanted me to give you this. My name's Grace, by the way."

Grace hands me a black ribbon and a oval-shaped black pin with a picture of a amaryllis flower painted on it with a steady hand. I look at it questionally, never having owned something so valuable.

"Here," laughs Grace, and she gestures for me to turn around. She wraps the fabric around my throat, not tight enough to strangle me, and ties it deftly into a perfect bow at my throat. She then attaches the pin to the knot.

"What is it?" I ask, confused by the gift. I've never been given a gift before. Well, not one like this, at least.

"It's your token, that you take into the Games," she states, then leans close and whispers, "and it's got a few… secrets. It only recognizes your fingerprint, so others won't be able to activate it. The pin is a button, and, if you press it, you disappear. It's like a barrier, but it turns you transparent. Mum designed it herself, using your knick-knacks. We thought it could help you in the arena."

I nod. I know bringing a token that could be used as a weapon or something of the sort is illegal, but I'll risk it. It turns me invisible! Trust Janice to think up something like that.

"Thank you, Grace," I say slowly, letting myself grin. "Thank you. It's beautiful."

She smiles knowingly, but is then taken away by the Peacekeepers, as her time is up. I finger the ribbon, being careful not to touch the pin. My token.

It's another age until I am collected to go to the train. Even though I am ecstatic, I keep my face impassive and cold. Peeta's been crying, that is obvious. I think Apollo has been too, and Katniss is looking quite upset.

"Hey Amaryllis," Peeta sniffs, looking at me through his wet eyelashes. "How'd it go for you?"

I tense up, not wanting to answer the question. But, hey, may as well give the Capitol a reason to pity me. The poor little girl from District 12 who didn't learn to smile.

"Oh, I assure you my time was better than yours," I say, trying to sound light-hearted. "I'm okay."

Peeta cocks his head at me, then continues, "How can you be so sure?"

I turn my head slightly and look at one of the cameras, "Oh, I'm sure. I don't have anyone to say goodbye to."

Apollo pales slightly, and wipes his eyes, "Nobody? At all?"

Shaking my head, I reply, in a bitter tone, "Not a soul. When your entire family's been killed and you have no friends, there's really nobody left for you to love," I pause, and continue in a softer, sadder voice, "and there's nobody left to love you."

We board the train without another word uttered, and I am left undisturbed.

I suppose they pity me. Or perhaps they agree with the words I uttered in my mind as I talked, 'And it doesn't help when you're unlovable.'